His Home
by PhantomProducer
Summary: The sequel to "Blood Bond". Ever since Mary's unfortunate death, John Watson and his son are unsettled in their home. Perhaps something can change all that in the near future...rated T for safety. Eventual Watson/OC.
1. Those Voices

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Those Voices" from _A Very Potter Sequel_ (in bold).

* * *

November 23rd, 1893

_It is a dreamland, one he has visited many times in the past several months. Powerful English oak trees border a wide meadow, totally bereft of farms, sheep, or assorted life._

_That is, except for her. Her, standing in the center of it all, the sun shining down on her gloriously._

_**I know you. I've seen you in a dream, an old familiar scene, from somewhere...**_

_Red-gold hair flies around her smiling face. Her dress floats on the breeze as well, loose and blue, bringing out her lively eyes. Her lips are rosy pink, no longer the wretched blood red. She reaches for him, for their son. William bounces by him suddenly, forgetting his father and running to the lovely woman waiting for them. He appears a little older, old enough to be bounding off without his father's aid._

_The little boy jumps into her arms, laughing wildly as she twirls him about. The two look so happy and carefree, something he hasn't been in a very long time. Setting the boy down, the look on her face turns to one of longing, as if she'd wished to hold the little one for much longer. The child lumbers out of their sight, and slowly she turns back towards her husband._

_**You know me. There's glowing in your eyes, I know and recognize, from somewhere...**_

"_Come, my love, it's so beautiful here," she tells him, and for a split second, he can feel her arms wrapping around him._

_**Those voices, singing out, "La, la, la, la, la..."**_

"WATSON!"

The good doctor was jerked from his reverie, jumping nearly out of his chair. His eyes flew around the room, wondering briefly who had called him. Then, remembering his location, he groaned. He was back in London, in bitter winter, with carriages and grand buildings and people hardened by anger and destitution in varying degrees.

"Yes, Holmes?" he asked, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. For the past three nights he'd been laboring over patients at Bart's, as well as attending his own son during the day. Willy had a cold, but his nanny absolutely refused to touch him, and so John picked up the slack when she simply walked out of the house. The woman had complained daily of her duties, and having a less-than-healthy child to watch over was the final straw for her, evidently. She hadn't been back since, and poor Watson was at his wit's end.

"I was simply wondering," Sherlock Holmes, his good friend and famed detective, stated, "if you would kindly make sure your offspring keeps his body out of my newspaper stacks."

Holmes held the sick little boy by his suspenders, half dangling William in the air. Watson winced and extended his hands out, gathering the child into his arms. At nearly two years of age, the boy was becoming a handful; it was no coincidence that his name was William _Sherlock_. Having two Sherlocks in the same vicinity equaled mounds of trouble.

Especially since one of them had just returned from the grave last summer. Holmes, as it turned out, had done much thinking and a small bit of changing in that time; death had an odd way of reshuffling his priorities. He'd traveled the world, destroyed one of the greatest enemies known to the Empire, and… One of the changes walked into the room at that moment as if she knew she was being thought about. Bearing a bowl of soup for the lad and straightening her dress, she shook her head at her husband's organizational worries.

"It's hardly his fault, Sherlock. Your newspaper stacks are everywhere," Madeline said, kissing Holmes' cheek and setting the bowl on the end table near the doctor's chair. Curiously, Watson watched the wife of his friend move through the environment liked she'd lived there her whole life, rather than for the past few weeks. It was so odd, seeing how this woman, who'd been run down by a carriage right in front of 221B Baker Street and therefore became the detective's client two years ago, had managed to snare the almost nonexistent heart of the coldest man in Britain.

But he would hardly begrudge Holmes this one bit of seeming normalcy. For as eccentric as the sleuth was, his new bride was able to keep up quite well in her own way. Inquisitive to a fault, and a fiery temper that could flare at any given moment, the widow-turned-wife was a blaze in the darkness of Holmes' world at the end of a case.

And thankfully, she was not Irene Adler. That was a point that Watson was more and more grateful for each passing day. Heaven only knew what would become of Holmes had the American temptress gotten a permanent hold on him…

"Watson? John?" she cut through the doctor's thoughts, narrowing her bright green eyes in concern. Snapping back to awareness, he silently started feeding his son and flashed a brittle grin at his compatriots. Sometimes he just couldn't pay attention, usually because he was thinking of Mary.

Mary Watson…beloved wife and mother, dead for only six months. It felt like an eternity to John. He never thought he could love so much in his life, and he never thought he could lose that love so quickly. They would've had their three year anniversary in the coming February. It hurt so much some days, his heart would almost literally cry out in pain. It was tough to live with, and made paying mind to the world turning around him that much more difficult.

However, his thoughts started to turn back suddenly onto an event several days prior, to that helpful girl who'd wrangled his son in and helped him back onto his feet. Her black eyes were dancing in his memory…

_The woman had hair black as night, eyes dark as coal, and an oval face that was ruddy red. She did not look down or away; she looked him straight in the eye, as she was nearly as tall as him…_

_Extending her hand towards John, she crowed, "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister…?"_

_Scolding himself for his loss of manners, Watson took her hand and shook it._

"_Doctor. Doctor John Watson."_

_She grinned. "Ah, Doctor Watson. I'm Miss Bayard. I think your son will stick by you now."_

"_Thank you, again."_

_Flicking her dark hair over her shoulder, she inclined her head in welcome. Dropping him a rapid curtsy, she bid him farewell and melted into the crowds lining the sidewalks. Watching her go, Watson felt himself release a breath he hadn't realized he was holding._

"_Pretty girl, Papa," William piped up…_

_John watched the dark head of the woman bob off into the distance, a grin creeping unbeknownst onto his lips._

"_Yes, Willy, very pretty."_

_**Those voices, ringing out, "La, la, la, la, la..."**_

Watson shook his head. No sense dwelling on her; there were other matters to attend to.

"I apologize. With William being sick and working harder than ever to keep the rent at Cavendish Place, I've not had much sleep," he confessed, his blue eyes flicking tiredly across the faces of his friends. He hated talking about his trivial irregularities in his livelihood, but he knew that they could see something was very off about him. It was only a matter of time before he would have to sell his journals for sustenance and not simply pleasure. For his part, Holmes tapped his pipe against the mantelpiece and snorted.

"I'd imagine so, given the steep prices over on that street."

"Not to mention the fact that you summoned me at two in the morning to track down some jewelry thief as well."

Holmes shrugged. "Not just a jewelry thief. He was the most dangerous con artist this side of Hanover Square."

Watson rolled his eyes, not deigning to respond to him. "I am so sorry that I had to foist William on you again, Madeline."

She grinned. "I hardly mind watching him. The only trouble is getting him to fall asleep again. He is so filled with questions about his father and his whereabouts that it's almost impossible for him to slumber until you return."

"Aye, he's quite the character," John admitted, pressing his handkerchief against the boy's nose just as he reared back to sneeze. Holmes winced slightly; though William was his "nephew", having children in the flat was still an entirely new experience for him.

"Perhaps you should hold some interviews for a new nanny, John," Madeline murmured, smoothing down her skirt nonchalantly. Both the older men turned to look at her fully, Sherlock's lips twisting into a smirk. "What?"

"I was going to recommend that course of action myself," the detective said, "but your stance and manner conveys that you've not only taken the liberty of broaching this subject, you've also got a few young ladies lined up for the very act."

"You've been reading the inquiries again, haven't you?" she replied, quirking up an eyebrow.

"I would be remiss if I did not read the whole newspaper, my dear."

"Excuse me," Watson crowed, waving his hand to get their attention. "I thank you for going to the trouble, Mrs. Holmes, but I am barely awake as it is. How can I possibly review a person's credentials at such a time? And who will watch William during the process? I cannot impose on you again."

"Oh, it won't be me you'll be imposing upon. Sherlock can keep an eye on the child, just for an hour or two," she told him, her harsh glance hushing her husband up immediately. "I will be helping you choose the caretaker, don't you worry."

John huffed, shaking his head and slapping his face. "Then we must get back to the house with all haste, if I must meet with these women."

Madeline pushed him back down into the seat just as he started to rise.

"The ad I sent to the newspaper has instructed the ladies to come here. That way, they will not have to see the sorry state your home is in at the moment, and we can make sure both William and Sherlock don't do much property damage."

"I am no child, wife, and therefore need not be watched like one," Holmes reprimanded her, just as the spark from the flame he'd ignited lit his smoking jacket on fire. Calmly he slapped it out, and carefully stared just above the amused faces of his best friend and Madeline.

"Whatever you say, my love," she cooed sarcastically; pet names were only used in jest in the Holmes household. Sherlock merely picked young William out of his father lap and walked out, all the while telling the lad that they were to go and join the gypsies performing on Tudor Lane. They would be far away from ludicrous women and their superiority complexes.

Watson grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose. The day was not shaping up to be what he wished it to be.

**xXxXxXx**

"Thank you, Miss Scott, Dr. Watson will be sure to contact you, should we require your services," Madeline crowed wearily, waving away the tenth interviewee. The portly old lady saw her own way out, bobbing a short curtsy and cutting a pert sneer at John. He raised his eyebrow, conveying his full feeling in that one small gesture. Sighing, Mrs. Holmes crossed yet another name off the list. "And here I thought Sherlock was overly specific on details."

"What? I simply wanted to know her background, you can hardly censure me for that," Watson defended himself, crossing his arms. The woman seated to his left snorted.

"Oh yes…all the way back to her great-grandfather's occupation, my friend. I'm sure that has some bearing on her abilities to keep an eye on a two-year-old."

He shrugged, not chagrined in the least. "She was proud enough to offer that up, anyway…"

Shuffling through the pile of credentials left on the coffee table, Madeline pressed on, "And what of the nine other ladies you have so clearly rejected?"

As he slowly raised his hand, she groaned inwardly; she should've known better than to give him an opening…

"Four are sufferers of joint pain and cannot follow after a child for too long. Three admitted to family members having succumbed to several diseases and therefore could be carriers, and two were far more interested in the fact that I am a doctor and not that I have a son to look after," he replied systematically, ticking the ladies off one by one on his fingers. "William needs to come first."

_**I would never do anything that could hurt you… You're all that's left of what I knew…**_

This was his son William, borne of his beloved Mary, after all. He was absolutely precious, simply because he was partly hers. And those women, those fawning girls more like, did not understand that.

"Well," Mrs. Holmes dared venture, "those last two you mentioned may not be so bad. If they are infatuated enough with you, they may hold your son as incredibly dear since he is of your blood."

The look he flashed her showed her he was less than pleased, and she merely held up a hand to indicate that she got the message clearly.

"Sorry."

"And rightly so," John quipped, giving her a toothy grin just as the door flew open. Inwardly preparing for another horrendous interview, Watson choked on his own breath when he saw who'd come in.

"Hullo, I apologize for my tardiness," purred a jarring voice, dark hair obscuring her face as she dropped into a low curtsy. As she rose up, the doctor found himself staring into the black eyes of his memory. "I'm Victoria Bayard. I am here to apply for the nanny position offered."

Carefully, Watson schooled his expression and proffered his hand. "Pleasure to see you again, Miss Bayard."

She accepted his hand and shook it enthusiastically. "Likewise, Doctor."

Madeline's eyebrows jumped up, and her smile turned positively devious. "You two have met before?"

"Aye, I had helped secure his child by his side not too long ago," Victoria replied, her smile contracting slightly. "And you are, madam?"

"Mrs. Madeline Holmes. The good doctor asked for my help to choose his nanny. Now, as the advert stated, we require a list of previous employers and such."

Eagerly Miss Bayard produced her résumé, engaging the lady in conversation as to what her specific duties would be and her smile returning in full force. Watson contributed little, like with the other candidates, and instead perused her job listings. She'd been a governess for several years, he could see, despite a four year gap where the listing was blank.

"How old are you, Miss Bayard?" he cut in out of the blue. Inclining her head towards him, she smirked.

"A lady never reveals her age, doctor. I would like to think of myself as a proper lady at least in that respect."

He was caught between frowning and grinning. He had hoped she would be more forthright with her potential employer, but the impertinence of her answer was intriguing.

"Family history, then? Can you tell me that?"

She hesitated. "Medical or vocational?"

"Both, preferably." A wince surfaced on his face, Madeline noticed; at least he was aware of how picky he was being.

"Other than common colds and fevers, my family has been of healthy stock. Father and forefathers have been fisherman and dockworkers for seven generations, brother enlisted in the navy some time ago before he was wounded in battle and sent home," she told him briskly, coldness invading her tone. It seemed she had hoped for a warmer reception from the man she'd helped two weeks ago. "Oh, and my mother currently has a broken leg on the mend. I'm sure you wanted to know that too, sir."

The wince became more pronounced. "Thank you for your information, Miss Bayard."

Victoria inclined her head again, the cheerfulness dripping off her face. Tense silence followed, the doctor and potential employee sizing each other up while Mrs. Holmes sat to the side. Her eyes darted back and forth between the two, and she squirmed uncomfortably. She thought of the arguments she had with Sherlock, and briefly wondered if they were as awkward to be around.

_**Those voices, reaching out, "La, la, la, la, la..."**_

Gently, Madeline broke the quiet. "We will contact you if-"

"You're hired, Miss Bayard," John interrupted, standing up and determinedly discarding his cane. For some odd reason, he wanted to show this woman that he could make do without the instrument, that he was strong enough and capable enough to do so. To show how powerful he could be. As she rose from her chair, her eyeline only a few inches below his, he could see the challenge he'd posed reflecting in her black irises.

"I thank you, sir. I will be at Cavendish place on the morrow," she murmured, dipping another curtsy.

"Very good. Be there by nine o'clock," he instructed, nodding his farewell to her. Without another word, she inclined her head towards Madeline and swept out the door, the wooden portal thumping in her wake. Watson felt himself deflating after she'd left, and he looked askance at Mrs. Holmes' wide grin.

"What?"

She stood then, giggling under her breath. "I think I am going to like this woman already. I simply cannot wait until Sherlock meets her."

This day was definitely not what Doctor Watson expected.

* * *

**Author's note:** Yes! It's the sequel of _Blood Bond_, finally! I would've posted sooner, but what with moving into a new apartment, scrambling to complete some art projects and needing a general break from writing, it's been pretty busy in my life. But I was hit with inspiration, and so I had to start writing again.

This will be more about Watson, but Madeline and of course Sherlock will not be thrust into the obscurity of the background. And since it is about Watson, this will be a bit more of a challenge to write, because I'm not used to writing him. Oh well…hope you've enjoyed this first chapter, please review, and I will see you guys for the next chapter!


	2. Under Ice

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Under Ice" by Kate Bush (in bold).

* * *

December 14th, 1893

Miss Bayard arrived promptly at nine the day after her interview with Dr. Watson, dropped him the chilliest curtsy possible while still showing respect, and immediately went to William's room to begin her duties. John was taken aback by her cold demeanor towards him; after all, an interview between a widower and a single female employee had to be absolutely proper and unfamiliar. He simply did not see how her knickers could've gotten into the twist they were in. After the initial first day, she sent for her things at her parents' home and moved in that night, occupying the first floor bedroom next to the kitchen. And since that day, she'd kept her icy front up, giving Watson the barest of nods and shortest replies imaginable.

What really threw him was her completely different attitude towards his son. When she was tending William, and unaware of the doctor's presence surveying her behavior, she was bubbly and bright. She maintained a stern grasp on the child, but she was playful and elegant as well.

The boy himself adored her straightaway. She was the comforting female presence of the house, since now he would not be constantly tend by "Auntie Maddy". In her he found a playmate and teacher, and he never hesitated to tell his father of the glorious antics he'd embroiled himself in with "Miss Vicky" (she was there for three days before Willy began calling her that). That woman with the raven hair and coal eyes had utterly enchanted the child.

Not so with his father.

John prided himself of being very congenial, or at least more congenial compared to Holmes, with the ladies. He tried to be polite, look out for a woman's needs before his own, and remain a complete gentleman. But when one stood like a glacier in his path, he had no idea how to warm up to such a creature.

_**It's wonderful…everywhere, so white…the river has frozen over, not a soul on the ice…**_

With three weeks passed since their first day as employer and employee, things still had not transitioned to anything resembling smooth. Thankfully for him, he did not much dwell on the issue of the nanny with his practice picking up speed as winter deepened. Colds, fevers, and bone-cracking weather made the people call him out in droves, and once again he was packing his Gladstone bag to make some housecalls.

"What do you make of this, Gladstone?" he asked the English bulldog sitting beside his namesake. The dog merely blinked three times before yawning ineffectually. Watson smirked, shrugging his shoulders before patting the animal's head and scooping up the bag. Clattering past his son's playroom down the stairs, he caught the little tune William was singing. It was an old song Mary used to sing to him as she cradled him in her lap. John's heart twisted in his chest, but he ignored the pain and clambered down the last step awkwardly.

The war wound in his leg tightened as his foot slammed off-kilter, and his cane slipped on the hardwood floor. Preparing for a hard tumble, he was surprised to find strong hands catching him around his stomach. Glancing down, Watson groaned as he realized whose hands they were. He was completely unaware of the nanny passing him silently up the stair, and it was only by chance that she was able to catch him so quickly.

"I've got you, Doctor," Victoria breathed heavily, pulling him sharply onto his feet so quickly he hardly realized it. Dropping him a fast curtsy, she turned to ascend the stair, not bothering to wait for either reprimand or thanks.

Watson felt something inside him snap. Enough of the cold formality; he rapped his cane against the banister authoritatively. As if she could hear his angry thoughts, Victoria paused halfway up, dark hair slipping out of her cap over her eyes.

"Madam, I would like a word with you. For the past fortnight you have been in my employ, and although we both know a level of propriety is required in this situation, there has been no reason for outright hostility. If you have a complaint with me, I'd like you to bring it directly to me, rather than hold it over my head," he spat, eyes becoming icy blue in a flash. Throughout his speech he watched her, and marveled at the absolute calm that had descended on her person. Hands were clasped before her, her gaze locked on his, and she twitched not at all. But something about her was off. He could just…tell.

"I haven't slightest idea, sir, of what you speak. I have tried my best to meet your requests and treat you as civilly as I can," Victoria murmured. "I did not think my actions could have such an impact."

The doctor's eyebrow raised; she was clever, he had to give her that. Feigning innocence, or better yet stupidity, at such a level could have spared her in a less intelligent man's home. However, having lived with Sherlock for so many years, and better yet being married to a female of a like mind before, had trained him in detecting the hidden meaning behind words. Part of him liked the spirit she had displayed, though it was unseemly in a nanny.

However, given her demure expression and softened voice, he could not cite her for it. A very worthy opponent indeed in the game she'd constructed. Well, he was tired of playing it.

"Miss Bayard, if I have offended you in any way, I do apologize. It does not do for this household to have more discord than it already has," he replied, keeping his tone in check. It goaded him to simper at her so, but he wanted peace in his house; was that so much to ask for?

By the sudden downturn of the corners of her mouth, he got the feeling that perhaps it was.

"Doctor Watson, I do also wish to maintain a level of tranquility in this house, but I think you do not know what you are apologizing for. I would appreciate a sincere apology once you know what went wrong. Until then, good day, sir," Victoria rejoined, nodding her head and turning to go.

"You do not walk away from me!" John shouted, immediately regretting his sharpness. She halted, and fearfully she glanced up the stairs, silently wondering if William had heard his father's enraged voice. Little footsteps pattered across the wood, and a small blond head poked between the banister rails.

"Papa, why you yell?" the little boy asked, tears springing to his eyes.

"Never mind, William, go back to your toys," Watson tried to quell the building storm.

"Why, Papa, why?"

Hurriedly, Victoria took the stairs two at a time, scooping up the young lad and attempting to placate him.

"Your papa is not angry, William dear, just frustrated."

The boy's tears stopped, but his lower lip trembled still. "Don't know."

Pinching the bridge of her nose in self-aggravation, she went on, "Something has him upset."

"Up-stet?"

Turning on her heel, she carried the boy back into his room, and from the floor below, John could only hear scraps of "leg hurting" and "forgetting helpers". Once the door slammed shut, he knew that the conversation was ended. Usurped by his own son, Watson for some reason felt his lips twist into a grimace before he finally made his way out onto the busy streets of London. No doubt his patients were beginning to wonder if he had been hit with illness, too.

_**I'm speeding past trees, leaving little lines in the ice, cutting out little lines…**_

"Certainly feels like I'm sick to my stomach," John grumbled, jumping into the nearest cab and speeding away.

**xXxXxXx**

"I most certainly am not ill, Watson!" Holmes protested wearily, swatting away his friend's hands just as he reared back to sneeze. Madeline rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to her book to give her husband the illusion of a private examination.

"Holmes, your sinuses are packed solid, you've sneezed seven times in as many minutes, and you are bright red with fever," the good doctor rattled off, pulling a thermometer out of his bag.

"That best not be a rectal thermometer!"

Despite his weakened state, Holmes managed to grapple for a solid five minutes with Watson over the instrument, with it finally being dashed against the wall. The mercury bled down the wall, along with the last of John's patience.

"For God's sake, Holmes, you are forty-one years old! I should hardly have to deal with you in such a way. My own son, whom I treated not a week ago for the same illness, had more common sense and decency than you!"

Madeline winced at that, hiding behind her book and scooting lower on the window seat. It was rare for Watson to get this way, as he was unendingly tolerant and easy-going. It was one of the traits that best suited his profession. She could only wonder why he, the patron saint of Baker Street, could be so upset over that he would berate Holmes over his very nature.

"And what has your knickers in a twist, mate?" Sherlock drawled, affecting a Cockney accent momentarily.

His wife's head jerked up at that, her face flushing in embarrassment. "Sherlock!"

Chuckling under his breath, the bedridden man amended his speech. "I apologize, doctor. What I meant to say was, what exactly has you out of sorts?"

Tired blue eyes swept across the flat, followed by a deep sigh. "Nothing, Holmes."

At that moment, Watson felt the burning Holmes gaze running over him, analyzing him. He could've protested, but he let the detective perform his trade. A few theories were ventured, but he didn't deign to listen as Holmes rambled on. Rather, he just gathered up what appeared to be a dirtied rag beneath a stack of newspapers and wiped up the mercury, tossing the cloth into the trash bin when he finished.

"…You are not listening, chap. Must be something personal or at the home. I believe that is your area of expertise, my dear," Holmes' voice cut through his haze two minutes later. Madeline huffed indignantly, while John shot her a worried glance.

"What, simply because I am a woman I am the expert on those things? Or is it because I am a wife?" she asked pointedly.

Holmes' dark eyes flashed with humor. "Not only married, but twice married. So all of the above, dearest."

She groaned, but good-naturedly turned her attention onto their mutual friend.

"I cannot believe he is so persistent. It's as if he is avoiding something."

"That's just what I was thinking!"

Her green eye flicked over her husband. "I was speaking of you, love. Do not employ diversion tactics; we both know you are drawing our attentions away from the fact of your sickness. The sooner you let John do his job, the sooner you can be back to work."

She sashayed to him, dropping a kiss on his forehead and exiting the room swiftly. However, she did pause halfway between the door and the hall.

"Tell me, doctor, how has getting on with Miss Bayard been going? Is she still icy?"

John cleared his throat awkwardly and shrugged. "About the same. I tried to make amends, but she claims no ill will."

She merely snorted, shaking her head. "You have no idea, do you?"

Biting his lip, he returned to his doctorial ministrations. "Holmes, I recommend you-"

"Perhaps if you had presented yourself in a friendlier manner as you hired her, rather than been a desolate boor, she wouldn't be acting thusly," Madeline pressed on, not taking the hint. Automatically Watson felt his insides cringing; he rather hoped that the nanny would've moved past that day, but given his knowledge on women, it was no shock she had a long memory on the slight. His mind chided him for allowing this matter to become a large issue, telling him off for acting like an absolute wretch rather than as a gentleman. Finding her point had hit home, she smiled smugly and pivoted on her heel, taking the steps two at a time to gather up tea from Mrs. Hudson.

_**In the ice, splitting, splitting sound…Silver heels spitting, spitting snow…**_

"Sherlock, stay in bed, get some fluids in you, and take these pills," Watson recommended quietly, transferring a package onto his coughing friend. As the detective reached for the pills, the doctor snatched his wrist and captured his full attention. "And no cocaine. It will only agitate your fever. I am completely serious. I will not hesitate to take action upon you, should you go against doctor's orders."

Holmes snorted, and pulled his hand away. "Whatever you say, old chap. Look to your own problems first. Get some sleep, and make amends with the help. After all, if she will be caring for your son, it would be best."

Watson ground his teeth, completely irritated. "I understand that, Holmes, stop with your patronizing manner."

"I could say the same to you, chap."

For the first time all day, a grin cracked over the doctor's lips. "You first."

**xXxXxXx**

9:37 PM

_Creak, creak. Creak, creak._

Victoria rocked William gently in the chair by the window. The detestable, ungrateful doctor was still out. She had no idea why on earth his frank freezing attitude; after she came from a family where she, being a girl, was not respected. The household she'd lived in was not always one where she was valued. It was inevitable, after all. In this society, a female was always worth less than a man, no matter what. She sighed, tucking the loose raven hair back under her cap. Why would she ever think-

"Miss Bayard."

His voice whispered to her from the doorway, letting in the lamplight from the hall. She said nothing, but watched his silhouette curiously.

"I know why now. And again, I apologize for my past behavior. I had no right to hold you to scrutiny, not at all."

_**There's something moving under, under the ice…**_

The good doctor's frame slunk further into the room, coming right up to her chair. Watson leaned over slowly and dropped a kiss on his son's head, pulling the boy from her arms.

"Thank you for watching William. Good night, Miss Bayard."

Stunned, she could only nod and drop a curtsy before rushing from the room. As she pattered down to her quarters, she blinked in shock.

_**Moving under ice – through water… "It's me."**_

Civility. Courtesy. Respect. In five sentences, it changed everything. And the winter of her fury had secretly begun to thaw.

* * *

**Author's note:** I am SO SORRY this is so late, but to be honest this is how it's going to be for at least a month. I just got a role in the mainstage show of my college, so at most I will only be updating every two weeks because I'll be so busy. I hope this chapter was alright; I was trying my best to keep up.

So instead of updating next week, it will most likely be two weeks from now. Hope you enjoyed this, PLEASE review, and see you in awhile.


	3. Chances

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Chances" by Five for Fighting (in bold).

* * *

January 31st, 1894

The new year of 1894 was rung in happily in the Watson and Holmes households. Well, happily enough that is. John was a little lonesome on the special holiday without Mary, but he managed to still enjoy his time with his friends at Baker Street. With things becoming more peaceful at his own home, the stress of the cold and influenza season slackened slightly, and he could go about his duties with nearly the same confidence as he used to.

The mood of a woman could affect so much, even if the woman is simply the nanny.

But still, Victoria Bayard seemed to be larger than her role as caretaker for his son. After things had quieted down a bit, Watson was able to pour over his medical texts or personal correspondence while still watching her attend to his boy. The very air around her seemed to crackle with repressed energy. In the dark dress and small bonnet gathered in her black hair, she seemed trapped. The flash of her eyes, the speed of her movement…she was not meant for servitude.

_**Chances are, when said and done, who'll be the lucky ones who make it all the way…**_

Flipping through his papers, he tracked down her list of references and old positions. The four year gap of unemployment glared up at him. Just what had she been doing in that time? Was she married? Did she travel? Just what was there that she wouldn't tell?

John supposed he could go to her family, as a background check, but given how she'd already gotten angry at him for simply being cold and overly professional, he knew right away that he could never do it himself.

And asking Sherlock to do so for him was out of the question as well. When the detective finally met the nanny at Cavendish Place, his first impression was that she had the talent of lying.

"Balderdash," Watson talked over her response, trying to save her. There was no possible way that Holmes could build an argument for his observations on just greeting each other. "She is a perfectly honest woman. No secrets from her past work, all her previous employers have told me so themselves."

Her black eyes burned for a second, almost daring to ask how he could just do that after hiring her on the spot. It was a belated action, but hardly necessary.

"Oh certainly, she is quite a professional," Holmes concurred, nodding her away. When she only dropped a curtsy and stayed in her place, he sighed and continued, "But she cut her eyes to the right when I stated that. The eyes are always honest when the person isn't. The way she moves, the way she's schooling her expression, it's all false."

"But sir, then couldn't I make the same argument about you?" she ventured suddenly, looking him square in the eye. "I'm sure you are harboring thoughts about everyone you meet that you don't immediately say, and you obviously are holding yourself under extreme control. Everybody lies, to an extent, sir."

There was a moment of absolute silence at Miss Bayard's clipped speech. Watson glanced at his friend, unsure of what to make of Holmes' raised eyebrow and pursed lips. Truth be told, it was incredibly funny to see that expression on his face, but John was more worried about what to do with Victoria. She'd spoken beyond her station, and while hilarious, it went against propriety.

Then again, Holmes always did too. So it was with great relief that the doctor's lips folded into a smile when his great detective friend smirked slightly.

"Too true, Miss Bayard," Sherlock pronounced, nodding and walking into the parlor as if he owned the house. John shrugged his shoulders and beckoned for Miss Bayard to go upstairs.

"I apologize for his frankness," he began lamely, only to be stopped by her shaking head and wide smile.

"It is no trouble, Doctor, your stories in the Strand have indicated how straightforward he can be," she whispered, ascending the steps quickly. "I rather like him."

_**Though you say I could be your answer, nothing lasts forever, no matter how it feels today…**_

Something dark and strange twisted in Watson's stomach when she said that, but he forced himself to nod and grin as she dropped a curtsy on the landing and sped away.

"She is not who she appears to be," Holmes crowed, staring out the window onto the busy London streets. "London accent hiding original, placing family holdings in Devonshire. At least half her childhood was in the City. Obviously working class, but holds herself with an upperclass stance and demeanor. Sweeping bow, trained response…you have an actress in your household."

The doctor's stomach did another dance, but this was a far more dreadful one.

"No. She cannot be. I've checked the references, she's only ever been employed as a caretaker of some sort."

"Truly?" the detective asked ironically, eyeing his friend with mock disdain. "Come now, fellow, she said it best not five minutes ago: everybody lies. Is there nothing on her record to indicate that she could've been a part of that sordid profession?"

"Sordid" came out in a stilted tone, showing that Holmes certainly did not share society's outlook on actresses. To him, they were not all harlots and witches. He had the blessed (and sometimes cursed, the doctor mused privately) viewpoint that everyone was the same, had the same foibles and opportunities, and therefore everyone should be treated the same. He, however, treated them with enormous amounts of indifference, with a dash of disrespect for those who set themselves up on a pedestal.

The two men had been raised in the same country, in the same class (or close enough; John was more in the fledgling middle class while Sherlock's family was closer to the upper end of it), in nearly the same type of family, and somehow John had retained prejudices that Holmes had luckily eluded.

Fighting down the disgust for himself, John's voice wavered. "No…"

Holmes snickered. "Can't bear to think that your lovely nanny as something less than she is?"

"Hush, Sherlock," Watson silenced him, turning his attention onto the ceiling and trying to get his breathing back to normal. "Tell me the reason for this pleasant, unexpected visit."

"Sarcasm does not become you, my friend. I've come to schedule an appointment with you, Doctor, on behalf of Madeline. She's sick as a dog this morning, and unfortunately I am unable to care for her myself," the detective confessed, worry streaking rapidly through his irises.

"Case calling you out of London?"

"Back to the Baskerville residence, believe it or not. I'm required to give my testimony at court on the morrow."

Watson nodded, retrieving a pen and scratching himself a note to check on Mrs. Holmes before the day was out.

"I was curious when they would call you. I had to go in a week ago; bloody awful train ride there and back, let me tell you. How they could've possibly delayed the trial for nearly three years is beyond me, Holmes."

"Well, not everything ends as tidily as you make them do in your awful news clippings. Rewriting the end to allow the murderer to be destroyed by the swamp is quite fine for a ghost story, but the reality of him being caught in the jaws of his own dog and jailed the same night just doesn't quite make it suitable."

They shared a bitter laugh at that. "Yes, Holmes."

A companionable quiet descended, with the sleuth taking the opportunity to observe his surroundings.

"Good to see the house in order again."

John tapped a finger on his desk. "Miss Bayard has been assisting Missus Roberts in tending the house. She's certainly been earning her keep."

"I should say so. It hardly matters at all that she was a performer; she does well enough to recommend herself to anyone," Sherlock murmured, tapping his foot nearly imperceptibly on the floorboards. His companion shot him a furious glance, silently indicating that he wished to hear no more on the subject. Lithely Holmes maneuvered back to the front door, bidding the doctor good-bye over his shoulder. Having thought him gone after a moment, Watson nearly jumped out his skin when his old chum's face appeared again around the corner. The polished veneer of detection and observation had hardened Sherlock, but not his eyes. "Do wire me at the Stone Creek Inn and tell me how she is, will you?"

Fiercely protective, and yet like many men, he didn't know how to function or handle himself when his beloved was ill. Adopting a measure of calmness, Watson assured him he would do so. Holmes disappeared in a blur, as if to outrun his feelings of concern. Staring at where his friend had stood mere moments ago, he listened to the snatches of a children's song and Victoria's mirth overflowing into laughter on the second floor. Warmth spread through his veins, and he gathered enough momentum from the good feeling to propel himself out into the cold and onward to his duty.

**xXxXxXx**

3:14 PM

"Truly? You really think so?"

"It's a very plausible explanation, Madeline. And I'd be a terrible doctor if I was ignorant about this variety of symptoms."

"I never…well, it's never happened before," she croaked, her green eyes giant at the prospect. "Forgive me for being a little surprised."

Watson pressed himself into a nearby chair. "It is a pleasant surprise, though."

Pregnant.

Madeline was pregnant. Or at least there was a very good possibility she was. Once Watson arrived at 221B, he couldn't see what was wrong with her, other than being pale from her morning expulsions. After doing visual tests and checking her heart rate, he asked her to tell him what she had been experiencing the past few weeks of the sickness. For several days, she had been unable to keep her breakfast down…or to even look at the breakfast that Mrs. Hudson had made for fear of vomiting. She felt achy, and was incredibly on edge. Those were the warning signs.

"_I called upon some society acquaintances of mine, who when I told them of my recent discomfort teased me and strongly hinted that they had similar behaviors when they had their children."_

Once she missed her monthly course, though, she suspected the truth, and begged Sherlock to have John examine her. Though, like her husband, she deflected, insisted on the possibility of an illness of some other sort. She was too cautious to believe the signals her body was sending, too hesitant to hear confirmation from anyone else. Watson found himself alternately happy for her and uncomfortable that he had inadvertently confirmed his friend's potency.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she pivoted towards the fireplace. "In the past, Simon…he and I-"

"He was probably…incapable," Watson commented, trying to spare her tender sensibilities.

She did not want the sparing. "Impotent, you mean."

"Correct."

_**Don't get me wrong, I never say never…I'm just a realistic man…**_

Her lips met in a thin line, her mind turning back to the shadow husband from her arranged marriage at seventeen. Gratefully, the instances when they coupled were few, but she knew back then he wanted a child off her, a son to continue the St. James line. In their fifth year together, he tried especially hard, as if he could see the years fleeting by. He was hot, desperate for a son. And still Madeline did not conceive; though they were good friends throughout their marriage until his death, she had to wonder if he resented her for not giving them a child.

Now, with Sherlock, a man who was older than Simon when he first started trying and with considerably more damage done to his body, she'd gotten the child. In the first months of marriage no less (though they had been "together" for some time before that).

Her shoulders began to shake, suppressed but joyful laughter filling her throughout. She didn't know if the mirth would manifest as belly laughs or hysterical giggles, so she held it back.

_**Chances are we'll find two destinations, chances run away from me…still chances are more than expectations…**_

"I wonder what my husband will think," she said, a crooked smile gracing her lips. "Truth be told, he does not think much of children at all, let alone having any of our own."

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "Did you not speak of this before getting married? I would think-"

"Oh," she waved her hand in the air, dispelling John's words. "We have, but he was so delightfully vague about it. It is still hard to predict how a man will react to the news of becoming a father, no matter what tendencies he has."

Watson concurred, thinking back to the moment of shock he'd experience when Mary broke the news about William. "In any case, he'd be a fool indeed to think that it would not be possible to procreate, even in his own marriage. And Sherlock Holmes is no fool."

"For all intents and purposes, he really is not."

A moment of quiet descended on the duo, with John observing Madeline's demeanor. She was calm, but her eyes remained wide, lit with a happiness he couldn't begin to fathom. Her hands rubbed her stomach absentmindedly, as if she could feel her baby right then. John wanted to keep her looking so hopeful, but in the end he had to be honest with her.

"I…could be wrong, though."

She looked over her shoulder at him, in a haze. "What?"

"You won't know for certain until the second month. You could indeed have some sort of bizarre illness, and that could be delaying your courses. Some women find that happens to them due to stress, colds, influenza, and other maladies. I find that the fact that you are exposed to chemicals and other vile substances picked up off the streets for your husband's mad experiments could also be a cause."

"He's usually careful with whatever he's subjecting to scrutiny, but even he cannot account for every detail," she responded, her hand still on her stomach. "So many variables to the equation. What prognosis do you hope for, doctor?"

_**Eight to five, or two to one, lay your money on the sun…you gotta cry before you see chances…**_

"The best, naturally. And the evidence is pointing in that direction."

That said, he rose and enfolded Madeline in a hug. She gripped him hard, letting out a gasping laugh that caused her friend to follow suit. Pulling away and dropping into her husband's favorite chair, she couldn't remove the grin from her face.

"You know, I have always wanted children," she said, smirking up at him, "and this news...is absolutely delightful. I pray you are right in your diagnosis, John."

Watson snorted. "I pray it, too. And please, I beg you, tell me how Holmes reacts."

She patted him on the shoulder. "Believe me, you'll be the first to hear of it, sir."

He smiled then."So when shall you tell him?"

Holmes' enigma of a mind was impossible to analyze; there was no way any of them could predict how he would react to the news if it were true. Certainly, Watson thought that it could be a grand moment in the history of time.

Madeline bit her lip, thinking hard. "When he comes home, I think. Perhaps the day after. He promised that the court proceedings he was attending would not take a very long time, and I do want to tell him in person. I want to at least say that there is a chance of it being true."

Her eyes flicked to the side, passing over the mess and seeing beyond the world she comprehended.

"I just don't want there to be any false hope. Not this time."

Her flushed face was going pale as she contemplated this possibility. She had a point there; given her propensity to not conceive beforehand, she didn't want to be wrong about this one and end up with a broken heart. The mere wanting of a child manifested so strongly in the room that it was almost a tangible haze around her.

"Whatever you do, do not worry," Watson cut through it, patting her hand. "It's quite possibly the worst you can do at this point. And don't worry about him, either; in the end, all will be resolved."

"True enough." After thinking another moment, Madeline's nose wrinkled in distaste. "And the vomiting?"

"It will run its course in time. Not immediately, though, and in the meantime supplement yourself with water. Just rest up, no over-exertion, hold off on drinking liquor of any sort, and all that."

She stood again, dropping into a formal curtsy. "Good afternoon, then, Dr. Watson."

John bowed at the waist. "Good-bye, Mrs. Holmes."

Farewell given, he exited the Holmes domicile with all speed. The air was so charged with energy now, Watson felt his feet sparking as he clambered along the sidewalk. A newborn Holmes? Was it really possible? If he had diagnosed her correctly, then…oh, the next generation was one to watch out for.

_**Chances are the fascination…chances won't escape from me…**_

"Oh, to be a fly on that wall when Holmes gets back."

* * *

**Author's note: **Thanks to **Zenyatta19** for all the help I received editing this chapter. It's so much appreciated!


	4. The Secret's in the Telling

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "The Secret's in the Telling" by Dashboard Confessional (in bold).

* * *

February 5th, 1894: 8:17 PM

Sherlock huffed as he briskly walked through the cold February night. Great puffs of vapor rose from his mouth, misting against the wintery sky. Relishing the walk over the carriage he'd jumped off of, his body drooped with exhaustion. The trial was antagonizing, as he suspected, and to be trapped in that little town that revered him as a saint or conquering hero was nauseating for any prolonged period of time. And yet, he'd been stuck there. A freak snowstorm had buried the tracks on the 2nd of February, mere hours after he'd given his testimony and heard the verdict of Baskerville, and did not let up until yesterday. He would've gladly hired a coach to speed him back to London, but that would've been days longer and several degrees colder than waiting for the evening train. Being crammed into the common car with several other people, most of them villagers who pestered him with more questions, did nothing to improve his mood.

It had taken hours, and though he descended from the locomotive with an air of detached calm, he was writhing to get away from all the people surrounding him. No longer able to stand being boxed in, be it a car or cab, he sent off his hired hansom and carried himself and his bag through the city streets. Dirty orphans brushed by him, several gentlemen tapped their canes as they shuffled into the nearby club, and a loud, grating voice confirmed the start of the second act of the small theater he'd once seen Irene perform in. Ah, he was grateful to return to a sense of civilization.

And with turning his mind to civilization, he found his thought wondering about his wife. For a whole month, Madeline was sick, and poor Sherlock was ever the clueless husband (though of course he would never admit it). Though Watson had fulfilled his duty and saw to his patient, the report he got via telegram was not detailed. It was, however, positive; John confirmed that his wife would be quite alright. Still not an answer, but at least an assurance.

_**The signal is subtle, we pass just close enough to touch…No questions, no answers, we know by now to say enough…**_

The whole thing was strange to him, and if there was one thing Sherlock Holmes knew, it was when a situation was altering drastically. A sense of being out of his depth set upon him, chilling him along with the wind. He pulled his coat tighter around himself.

_**Our act of defiance, we keep this secret in our blood…No paper or letters…**_

With no case to distract him, and no message further elaborating on the condition of his spouse, he found himself making a decision that took him off of his desired course. Sherlock made a point to weave between a hansom cab and a standing stall as he crossed the street. By showing up at the good doctor's home, he could get a more accurate detailing of his wife's problems and perhaps shake the feeling of something bigger than himself looming in the shadows of his mind.

**xXxXxXx**

The pounding on the door at Cavendish alerted Victoria to two sudden truths: Mr. Holmes was here, and was incredibly anxious about something. He was the only man who would come at uncertain hours of the day, pounding at the door as if he was on fire and requiring assistance. The doctor, sadly enough, did not have many visitors, and his patients went instead to the office he had begun to rent out down the street, so it could only be the great detective at that moment. Unfortunately for her, the doctor was out attending one of his dying patients at the moment. Well, dying or chronically ill; she should've paid closer attention when he was drilling off his list to her that morning…

Her chief concern was that of little Willy. She had just got the boy into bed, rocking him to sleep gently, and all that work would be for nothing if he woke. As a nanny, she had found that as a rule one had to care deeply for their wards, or else be cast into madness, and so she did for William. But she treasured the moments when he dozed just as much!

Slowly she clambered down the hall, wondering why on Earth the housekeeper was not up and answering the door. Nonetheless, she smoothed down the skirt of her black dress, before turning the knob and adopting an authoritative stance.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes," she spouted automatically, before really taking a good look at him. When she focused, her eyebrows shot up at the sight of the man. The purple shadows under his were deepening with each passing moment, his eyes darting about rapidly. His wild hair was crammed under a cap and his face was unreadable. "Not a pleasant sojourn on the train, then, sir?"

"Indeed not, Miss Bayard," he murmured, straightening his backbone and attempting to maneuver into the house. A hand sharply held out preempted him from going any further, though. "May I come in, miss?"

"I am afraid the doctor is out, sir, attending patients as usual," Victoria announced, eyes flicking past him to the street beyond. She sincerely hoped the doctor would come home soon; the detective, though she was inclined to admire him, read her far too easily. He saw too much, too much in her own mind, telling of her past.

_**We hide within our veins…The things that keep us bound to one another…**_

"Do you know when he'll return? I must speak with him on a matter of utmost importance."

"About your wife, sir?" Inwardly she grimaced at her forwardness. After several years, she should've known better than invite intimacy with her employer…or his friends. She was just curious about this Madeline character. Having only met her the one time during her interview, she wondered about this singular woman who snared the world's most unattainable sleuth. Watson spoke minimally about her condition, what with his confidentiality with patients, but she had inferred something was amiss. She would say "wrong", but the delighted grin the doctor sported spoke of a better side to the matter.

Luckily for her, Mr. Holmes was a man who did not care about such a silly thing as servant/master rules. Still, he made no real answer except to incline his head and furrow his brow. Since they were of a height, they spent a few minutes staring each other down before Victoria glanced away.

"I apologize, Mr. Holmes. I do not know when he'll be home, or even if he will be home at all before sunrise," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "In any case, shall I tell him you called?"

His dark eyes narrowed in annoyance, and he returned the gesture.

"Yes, you may. I just required some stronger evidence to the positivity of my wife's malady. Good evening."

She nodded, and thinking back on the little she heard Watson mutter under his breath, she managed to halt him on the third step down to the sidewalk.

"The doctor suspects her illness is something you helped along with, if you'd like to know."

Wide-eyed, he turned his blank face back in her direction for a long time, before he muttered something incoherent under his breath and lumbered off into the darkness. Blinking once, twice, three times, Victoria withdrew quietly into the house. A crazy idea was hatching in her brain, and with no sense of how or why she found herself stripping herself of her dress and digging deep into the secret lining of her trunk to don the trousers and shirt hidden inside. Calling out to Mrs. Roberts about stepping out for an hour or two, she flew away unseen and hailed a cab to take her 221B Baker Street.

_**There is a secret that we keep…I won't sleep if you won't sleep…**_

Ten minutes later, she was deposited in front of the building, but she knew better than to go through the front door. Instead, she pressed herself into the alleyway and silently let herself in through the back. Treading the stairs in the low lamplight, she snuck into what she could only guess were the doctor's old rooms. The partition separating it from the Holmes side was drawn across, giving her the chance to find a hiding spot. A heavy wardrobe was situated next to the window, and as she closed herself in, the sleuth tramped heavily into the rooms and threw open the door.

"Sherlock, you're home. I expected you over an hour ago." Hearing the lady's voice for the first time, Victoria blinked. She didn't know what she expected the woman to sound like, but she certainly did not expect Mrs. Holmes to sound so…average.

Then again, the lady wasn't the one who had worked with women who specifically trained their voices to be more cultured than they themselves were.

"I opted for a walking tour. I wanted to appreciate the anonymity a city can provide."

A giggle slipped out, definitely female. "Bombarded with accolades, were you?"

"Let's just say I prefer being able to move within the crowd," he confided, putting banalities and his bag aside. "Now, let us speak about you, madam."

Victoria breathed shallowly, not wanting to miss a word of this.

"Yes, Sherlock, we really should do that," Madeline responded, a mixture of glee and nervousness bleeding through. This was a woman who had trouble hiding her feelings; the young nanny was grateful she had a higher capacity for duplicity. "You must curious as to what John had to say."

_**We are compelled to do what we must do, we are compelled to do what we have been forbidden…**_

"Quite. Though I told him to tell me immediately as to what the diagnosis was, the telegram he sent said nothing but that you were not in immediate danger. What, pray tell, could this illness be?" The cushioned sound of his coat being tossed aside punctuated the pause. "Although one anonymous source did hint that whatever you have, I gave it to you."

Victoria could visualize the raising of an eyebrow to accompany the almost snide tone. "Anonymous source? Are you spying on me now?"

"Not entirely," he supplied, "just looking for answers to prepare myself, in case it was more serious than it is."

The frown on the lady's face was evident in her voice, which became softer as she spoke again. "But it is serious, Sherlock. And you do need to prepare for it, on the chance that it is true."

"What then?" The detective had a confused inflection in his voice. And if she was hearing things correctly, Victoria was sure she gleaned a tiny bit of fear in it as well. "What are you sick with?"

"I'm not sick…not really. It seems that I might be having a baby. We might be parents."

_**Until the last resilient hope is frozen deep inside my bones…your name is pounding through my veins…**_

In her dark cupboard, Victoria felt her heart swell with happiness for the couple, but given what she knew about the detective's prickly, unfatherly nature, what would his reaction be? And so she waited once more, cramped and uncomfortable for the answer.

"It is early days yet, and there could be the possibility that it could be something else, but John thinks—and I concur—that I am most likely carrying our child," Madeline said, sounding more and more unsure as the silence stretched.

No answer.

Nothing.

No-

A whisper, hardly intelligible. "That's wonderful."

The lady herself had a sharp intake of breath. "What did you say?"

"Well, it's certainly a surprise, and one that frankly I should've expected. As I am still wading through the unfamiliar territory of female methodology, I am not wholly shocked to not see the reality in you previously. Now that I know, it is incredibly obvious," he remarked, excusing himself from his first speech. Three heavy footsteps indicated somebody crossing—her or him?—and Madeline cut in.

"You said, 'That's wonderful'. I know you did."

"Perhaps, in the moment-" he tried to deflect.

Victoria could almost see the wagging finger in Holmes face. "No, no, I know what you said. So…this is not an entirely unpleasant thing for you to know, dearest?"

Another sigh. "I was more concerned that something far worse was happening to you."

She was almost giddy now. "Because you love me?"

"Mrs. Holmes…"

_**Before the words escape my lungs and I'll whisper only once...**_

'_Time to go,'_ Victoria thought, crawling out of the wardrobe and across the floor. She was too old to find the situation blush-worthy, but she had no wish to overhear any sort of private moment this situation would most likely lead to. A creaking step betrayed her presence though, and cursing under her breath, the sleuth heard her movements.

"Who is out there?"

A heavy groan. "Oh, for God's sake, ignore it for once, Sherlock!"

"Madeline!"

Looping her leg over the side, the nanny slid smoothly down the banister, going out the back once more, her curiosity sated. Once she knew that she was absolutely free and three blocks away, she hailed a hansom and rode home, chewing over her food for thought.

John was standing on the doorstep when her carriage pulled up. As she descended, his sky-blue eyes went wide in shock. The look of confusion on her employer's face was completely hilarious, but she kept her giggles down.

"Miss Bayard, what in the world…how…what have you been up to?" he gasped, his gaze scanning her manly attire and broad smile.

"I wager you'll find out tomorrow, Dr. Watson," she responded cryptically, dropping a curtsy with her nonexistent skirt. "Good night, sir."

"Good night."

Watching her sashay towards her room, the doctor found his demeanor softening and his lips stretching into a smile to match hers.

_**There is a secret that we keep…I won't sleep if you won't sleep…we are compelled to do what we have to…we are compelled to do what we have been forbidden…**_

"Miss Bayard…what am I going to do with you?"

* * *

**Author's note: **Alright, here's the dealio- I may not be able to update for two and a half weeks. I have tech weekend coming up for the show I'm in, plus actual performance weekends as well. For sure, the next chapter will be late, I'm just not sure how late. Sorry!

I hope you liked this update, please review, and I'll try to get back as soon as possible!


	5. Father and Son

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Father and Son" by Cat Stevens (in bold).

* * *

March 31st, 1894

Despite the best efforts spent on the contrary, news about Madeline's pregnancy spread fast. The house was suddenly aflood with visitors, particularly Madeline's female friends. Sherlock gritted his teeth and bore up as well as he could, but when Sister Constance stopped by to deliver flowers and a backhanded congratulations to the happy couple, he could no longer bear it.

"Watson, this is infuriating. Yes, a child was conceived, but why all the fuss?" he grunted to his companion from his hideout in the attic of 221B. He plucked at his violin's stings incessantly; his agitation was reaching new heights. John, for his part, just grinned and shrugged. "How can my wife get so carried away with an almost commonplace event to the point of allowing every Sarah, Mary, and Constance over to marvel at it?"

_**Father: It's not time to make a change, just relax, take it easy.**_

John sat a little straighter in his borrowed chair, sweeping his gaze around the attic as he constructed an answer. Trunks and old furniture of the past littered the space, as well Holmes' still used chemistry supplies and his array of deadly weaponry from around the world. It was actually quite mature of him, Watson noted, to move the dangerous things out for the health of the eventual child.

**_I was once like you are now, and I know that it's not easy to be calm when you've found something going on._**

"Quite possibly because this is her first pregnancy out of two marriages, Holmes. After trying year after year since she was seventeen, and accomplishing nothing to that end, I can imagine she'd be supremely pleased to finally be having a child," he stated quietly, catching strains of Madeline's chipper speech downstairs. Leaning back in his chair and flashing Sherlock a knowing look, he continued, "But of course you knew all that."

Sherlock flashed him an irritated look. "Yes, I did."

"You're looking from analytical viewpoint, that's how you're most accustomed to looking at everything. Once again, this is mostly emotional…and you're drowning in the unsteady seas of that outlook."

"Your eloquence astounds me," Holmes remarked sarcastically. "I can now understand why your scribbles on my life are so renowned."

Watson snorted. "Ask for an answer, you get an answer. I cannot guarantee it'll be the textbook data you absolutely thrive on, but there it is."

_**But take your time, think a lot …Why, think of everything you've got.**_

The squeaking third step on the attic ladder interrupted Holmes' biting retort, and both of the men swiveled to see who would come up through the hatch. It was, for certain, a surprise to find the black and grey-spattered hair of Mycroft Holmes darting up as soon as the hole was uncovered.

"Ah, your lovely bride told me I could find you here, though to be honest, your damned instrument gave you away all the way from the first floor," he murmured, smiling conspiringly at his brother before hauling himself fully into the dust-ridden room. "Good morning to you, too, doctor."

Watson tipped his derby at the older Holmes brother, smirking at Sherlock's immediate frown.

"Do not censure me for having musical ability, Brother Mycroft, simply because you had no aptitude for your own instrument."

"The pianoforte was not a match, I'll be the first to admit it, but what you put that Stradivarius through should have you arraigned for abuse," Mycroft remarked gently, the glint of humor growing in his bright eyes. "But on to the purpose of this visit…"

"Yes, do go on. Provide us with more congratulations on the fact that I am not impo-"

"Holmes!" Watson hurriedly cut him off, jerking his head in the direction of the still open hatch. The rooms were not that far from the ladder, after all. There were still, he assumed, ladies present within the vicinity. Mycroft shook his head, his brow suddenly furrowing in seriousness.

"Sherlock," he started, striding over to a crate and settling himself down on it, "while I do congratulate you and your wife, on your wedding too, no less, you have to know that I would not be the only one to learn about your life's…circumstances. Other parties had to be made privy to the information."

If Watson didn't know Holmes any better, he would've said the detective had gone slightly pale after that statement.

"You didn't," he almost growled, causing Mycroft to raise an eyebrow.

"Sherlock Montgomery Holmes, you should know better than to threaten me with that tone," the older brother warned, the power of an annoyed sibling shining through.

"And you, Mycroft Sherringford, should know better than do what I know you did. Confound it all!" the younger Holmes cried, nearly dashing his violin to the floor. After a moment of absolute silence, he regained enough of his faculties to ask, "So…what did Father say when you told him?"

Mycroft cut his eyes at John, clearly wishing to not have this conversation. Watson glanced back, his face deceptively blank but his mind filled with frantic questions.

"He seemed almost pleased. Most likely because at least one of his sons 'gained some intelligence' and decided to continue the family line," Mycroft sighed, digging into one of his coat pockets. He produced a simple, unadorned envelope with Sherlock's name signed with a flourish on it. "He wrote back to me, asked me to deliver this letter to you. He also stated that he is quite prepared to keep sending you letters until you reply, so avoidance of it is not highly recommended."

Even with the suggestion, Sherlock merely took the envelope and ripped it in half without a moment's hesitation. Mycroft glanced down at the scraps, and then back up into his brother's smoldering brown eyes.

_**Son: How can I try to explain, when I do he turns away again. It's always been the same, same old story…from the moment I could talk I was ordered to listen.**_

"For as much as you claim to be nothing like him, you are displaying a remarkable resemblance to his stubborn streak."

Sherlock glared, and then stormed out without another word. Watson feared the ladder rung would break beneath his forceful stamping. Not even Madeline's curious queries could stop him from just leaving the premises altogether. The doctor and the brother stared at one another for a few minutes before John muttered something about going to St. Bart's to see to a few people.

"He'll be back eventually," Mycroft said, nonchalantly rising from his seat and swiping at the dust gathered on his trousers. "I apologize for bringing this matter up in your presence. I know you are as used to his moods as anyone can be, but I can see you are clearly uncomfortable with what transpired."

"Not-" John started to lie, but he quickly shook it off. Mycroft would spot the fib faster than anyone else in the world, including Sherlock. Rather, he changed tack. "Just why does he not…why does he…"

"Why does he hate Father? Simple. He left our mother when the fighting came to be too much, and more importantly he walked out on his youngest son when he was twelve. This is the first contact attempt made in nearly twenty years, and only after Sherlock 'conformed' to his rigid, everyday Protestant male ideals," the older Holmes stated, starting for the ladder himself. "I managed to escape to university, and avoid the rows, but Sherlock witnessed it all. There are some things that I know happened back then that he won't even tell me the full details. Well, he can hold a grudge if he wishes, I'm not his keeper. But it will be quite the battle of wills, seeing who gives in first on this matter of writing."

_**All the times that I cried, keeping all the things I knew inside…It's hard, but it's harder to ignore it.**_

"Indeed."

"Farewell, Doctor."

That said, Mycroft lithely descended into the proper house space, murmuring a quiet good-bye and reassurances to Madeline that things would be quite alright. John was hot on his heels, his mind churning with the events that had transpired.

His quiet, plodding footsteps led him not to the hospital, like he thought he was headed to, but to his own doorstep. He had to wonder how an estranged father could just expect his prodigal son to accept him back into his life after two decades. Deep in the pit of his stomach, the thought made Watson sick. Could William, his own son, grow to hate him just as much, and for more archaic reasons?

'_Will he blame me for the death of Mary? Or for hiring another to take care of him when I should've done so myself?'_ he thought, turning the doorknob silently and entering the house. The shrieks of laughter flew over the banister; Willy was enjoying his time playing, oblivious to his father conundrum. _'This is completely ridiculous, John; William was so young when it happened, he won't remember her. He can't blame you for the disease.'_

Up the stairs he went, carrying himself with little awareness of his surroundings to the door of the nursery. He couldn't shake the feeling that he might fail his own son. He couldn't stand the thought the little boy could despise him in the future.

_**Father: Stay, stay, stay…why must you go and make this decision alone?**_

The wide beam William threw him once he noticed his father's arrival, though, dissipated all doubt.

"Papa!" the child cried, wrenching away from Miss Bayard's grip and dashing on unsteady feet towards John. Swiftly he scooped the boy up, laughing softly as he did so. With a sharp nod, he dismissed the nanny, and saw her solicitous face crease in apprehension.

"You may go, Miss Bayard," he affirmed, nodding toward the door. She dropped a curtsy, but paused on the threshold.

"Forgive me, sir, but you look troubled. Is there anything I can do for you?" she wondered, a hand half stretched towards him in concern. He gazed at her for a few moments, taking in her black hair and bottomless eyes, seeing full well that she being totally honest and genuinely uneasy for him.

It was a far cry from her earlier attitude, but quite a change from her normal spirit. He wasn't sure he wanted her to pity him like this.

"Just promise me something, Miss Bayard."

"Yes, doctor?"

_**Just sit down, take it slowly.**_

Watson's blue eyes swept over his young son and back to her swiftly. "For as long as you're in my employ, please take care that my son doesn't grow up to be a Sherlock Holmes."

Her mouth quirked up in a half smile. "Of course, sire. But I'm certain there is no possible way for him to be like that at all. You're _his_ father, after all."

In an instant he felt a bit more reassured, knowing that he was nowhere near being like his friend, God bless him. Somehow, Watson recovered from his dark thoughts and returned the grin. "Thank you for the reassurance."

"You're quite welcome, sir."

With a giggle and curtsy, she excused herself quickly from the room. As John set his boy back down to hear about William's day, he realized something about the nanny's appearance.

She had been dressed in what seemed to be gypsy fare. As she was too far gone for him to call her back, he just let the matter go.

'_Lord knows what she's teaching my son truly…let's hope she keeps her promise."_

* * *

**Author's note:** Holy late update, Batman! Yeah, I am super late, and for that I am SUPER SORRY. The show has owned my soul for the past couple of weeks, but tonight is the final performance/set strike, so I MAY be able to get back to a regular scheduled update pattern. I think I will, seeing as how I will have a huge amount of free time opening up from not having rehearsal anymore.

The Holmes family just has issues, don't they? Oh and PS: did you know that the people for "Sherlock Holmes 2" have cast Stephen Fry as Mycroft? Now I cannot stop picturing him like that; he is my Mycroft from now on. He rocks!

Next chapter will be mostly about Victoria, I've been waiting on this one…so thanks for reading, please review, and I'll try to update again as quickly as I can!


	6. Stand Up For The Champions

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**WARNING: Mentions of an archaic, now-illegal form of theater that represents an offensive, stereotypical viewpoint. Comeuppance will come for them, but just sit tight.**

**Song lyrics:** "Stand Up (For the Champions)" by Right Said Fred (in bold).

* * *

April 20th, 1894

As pleased as Victoria was to have found steady employment with the Watsons, there were times where she loathed being just the nanny.

For example, when the doctor decided to accompany the Holmes' on a jaunt through the city, and she was required to keep little William in hand. She didn't mind being in charge of the child, quite the contrary; she adored the little boy, truly. It was that in public she had to be treated as inferior, merely the servant trailing behind the gentry. She much preferred then to dwell on the past. Her mind wandered, although her iron grip remained on Willy's small hand, back to her freedom-filled days.

Those days had come with an extreme cost, and she knew that all too well. But she couldn't help fantasizing about them. The colors, the costumes, different cities, people, places, constant traveling…it was taxing, but the only time she felt like herself. Like she could be whoever she wanted to be, and do whatever she wanted without being beholden to any man or woman.

_**I was built to be the best…number one and nothing less…leave me to my destiny…**_

'_But I traded all that. I've made my choice,'_ she scolded herself, swinging William into her arms at his insistence. _'I had to.'_

While she could be aware of the child and yet wandering in her mind, she was unaware of the discreet glances Mr. Holmes kept throwing at her periodically. He had respected Watson's wishes and let her past remain a mystery, but he had surmised a good more about her than he let on that one day. He had, in one survey, realized just exactly how far she'd gone in her previous profession, and that she certainly hadn't gone alone.

But for now, he would be mum. Besides, as he was definitely not being paid to discover her truths, he could afford to keep his mouth shut. Although it would be an effective tool to get Madeline onto another topic than writing back his father.

_**I have waited patiently, I have vision… oh I believe…I know I can count on me…**_

Once Mycroft revealed to her the contents of the letter, she had badgered her husband to visit the old man. Over and over Sherlock had to fight his way out of that corner, memories he'd long suppressed threatening to resurface and spill out. Whenever that happened, he had to leave the house, disappearing to the Punch Bowl until he'd exhausted his pent-up resentment and aggression and he could return. As it was standing, the argument was put on hold for this outing, Madeline claiming that she merely wanted one afternoon of peace. It was best for the baby.

The slightest bit of a bump was beginning to show beneath her clothing, but she could still pass as being a normal-sized woman. It was best to keep the pregnancy a secret for as long as possible, lest some unsavory characters discover a way to destroy Sherlock Holmes, but they were reaching the end of that pleasant deception. Soon enough she'd have to order new gowns to accommodate the child's growth, and soon enough Holmes would possibly admit himself to being absolutely tied down.

_**Here we go, it's getting close…now it's just who wants it most…**_

Watson, for his part, looked upon his friends with joy and a slight twinge of regret. He was happy for them, of course, but the thought of Madeline's pregnancy inevitably led back to thoughts of Mary. She'd always wanted a child, and was so ecstatic to have William that she started assuming what he'd be like before he was born.

"_He'll be a bright child, this baby, and lively. He will be the spitting image of you, John."_

"_He's a strong one, his kicking has gone on for twenty minutes now. What a good little boy…"_

"_John, he will be the greatest parts of you and me, I just know it."_

_John smirked at that last one. "And how do you know this baby is a boy, my love?"_

_Mary graced him with one her brightest smiles. "I just know, dearest. I just know."_

And once William was born, they'd both looked him and they knew they wanted another child. Not right away, but someday soon…

'_Perhaps it's best that we only had William,'_ Watson thought, his face growing dark, _'That way she only left behind two of us. And she wouldn't have to suffer dying right after the second was born.'_

His eyes cut back towards the nanny carrying his little boy down the street, tirelessly following the trio in their movements. Watson grimaced; he could tell she was less than pleased to be out of doors, particularly because Victoria enjoyed a bit more freedom in the walls of Cavendish Place. For one thing, he could approach her with a simple request or even her opinion, and something akin to friendship would spring up between them as they chatted. She was so easy to talk to, once they'd gotten around the formalities. But out here, they both stuck to their social statuses: he was a doctor, a man of learning, and she was just his son's nanny, a female servant who would respond to any commands no matter how trivial.

_**It's just life, that's how it is, 'cause we have our strengths and weaknesses…**_

"She seems to have adapted well," Madeline commented lightly to him, drawing him out of his reverie. His face flushed when he realized whom she was talking about, and he only nodded in reply. "I'm glad of it. Victoria has a strong bearing, quite an impervious character."

"More than that," Sherlock concurred, drawing both of them closer to him so that the unsuspecting woman tripping along behind them couldn't hear. "Her will is iron, and her wit is very sharp as well. She has lived in so many places that she had to depend on only herself as a certainty. Both those things have kept her alive."

"Holmes, I'd rather not hear your theories about her past, as you well know. She cares for my boy, earns her keep, and so I will brook no further debate on this matter," John cut in harshly, refusing to look back at her. At Holmes' petulant look, he merely shrugged. "It's non-negotiable, Holmes."

"You just do not want to risk seeing her in a different light. God forbid she has any dimensionality," the detective grunted, letting his eyes fly from his friend's face to the crowds suddenly clumping before him. A wagon had situated itself on the side of the street, opened up to reveal a swing-down stage. A makeshift backdrop with painted foliage disguised the interior of the wagon. Horses tarried nearby, tethered to a post and drinking from a half full water bucket. The curious people gathered before it hushed their incessant chatter once a small, wiry man took the stage.

In a loud, boisterous American accent, the man cried, "Good day, my dear Londoners! We have traveled from across the pond to bring you our art. Our devastated stage is threatening to deteriorate; our show's specialty is on the verge of death. We call on you to keep our Southern hope and pride alive, in that you will allow us to display our spectacle: our band of wandering minstrels!"

Polite applause rippled through the audience, now counting Watson and the Holmes' as part of it.

"What an eccentric man," Madeline murmured, watching with muted delight. It had been awhile since she'd gone to see any theater, and this could prove to be a good show indeed. Holmes, on the other hand, watched him warily. He enjoyed acting himself, but could only wonder as to the reason why this troupe's spectacle was threatened so. Watson looked on with detached interest, and none of them noticed Victoria standing behind them, stock still and black eyes wide with shock.

"I'm sure some of you have heard our most famous colored man in America, the epitome of his race and their habits: Jim Crow?" the man blundered on, dissatisfied with the high number of heads shaking. A few people had gasped, and much like Victoria looked less than amused with the prospect. "Well, my ladies and gents, he has come halfway across the world to educate you all about their ways. I present to you, Jim Crow!"

With a great flourish, the little man flung his arms towards stage left, where a gangly armed fellow clambered on. His clothes were patched and frayed, and all mismatched. His natural ginger hair poked out beneath the straw black wig he'd donned, and the top hat upon all that was flapping and coming apart at the seams. But what grabbed the attention of everyone was the coal blackness of his face and hands, clearly a hard scrubbing of makeup rather than an actual skin tone.

"Well, how-di-di, muh faiuh ladies and gentlemens of Luhnduhn. Ise named Jim Crow, and Ise heauh to sing y'all a tune!" the blackface fellow crooned, swinging his arms to the cadence of his speech. A few people tittered at his ridiculousness, some outright guffawed. More than a few hands clapped and urged him to sing, which he more than readily complied to.

"How vulgar," Watson croaked, shifting uncomfortably. It was one thing to see actual people of color around the streets of London, but quite another to see someone claiming to be one of them and portraying himself as an idiot. Holmes, with his deep frown of disapproval setting in, concurred with a nod.

"Perhaps we should go," Madeline suggested, less than happy with the spectacle going on before them. However, before she even had the chance to turn around, she felt something heavy being thrust into her arms. When she looked down, she realized it was Willy, who was pointing at the retreating back of Miss Bayard.

_**I'm on the move, make way for me…**_

Watson and Holmes stared at the small boy, shocked that he could shunted into someone else's care that quickly. Craning his neck, John feverishly looked for his deserting nanny, relieved and simultaneously alarmed when her tall frame appeared on stage right, the horses' water bucket straining her arms as she held it. The crowd began to coo and crow at the appearance of the woman with the dark gown and even darker hair; just what was she doing there?

Mr. Jim Crow finally noticed her arrival, his singing and dancing halting immediately.

"Excuse me, Missus, Ise gonna hafta ast you-"

Heaving with all her might, Victoria Bayard sloshed the full bucket of ice cold water all over the actor, her eyes filling with rage. Sputtering, the incredulous actor swiped at his face, pulling off the black makeup and revealing the pasty white skin beneath.

Glowering, he took three menacing steps towards her and shouted (with proper grammar), "How dare you do this, you harlot? Why on God's green earth did you do this?"

Meeting his gaze fully, Victoria drew herself to her full height, seemingly towering over the man.

_**So stand up for the champions…for the champions, stand up…**_

"Sir, your spectacle is atrocious as well as your ideology behind it. I have known colored men with far superior talent play the stage and not disgrace another's race, and you sir should be ashamed of what you are willfully displaying," she growled, dropping the pail with a heavy clank. "Your foul show should die off, if you have to settle for destroying another man's dignity to make your ill-gotten money."

She pivoted on her heel, clattering off the platform and weaving through the crowd once again, hidden by the sudden resurgence of morality in the audience, people cawing at him to get off the stage and take his ludicrous caricature away. In the milling and stamping, Victoria stomped off down the street, neither looking forward nor backward, and apparently forgetting her responsibilities towards the Watson family.

John, having gone numb during the entire exchange, sprang into action, with a quick word to Holmes and Madeline, he moved as fast as he could after his nanny. The truth he'd been avoiding had just reared its ugly head; he had to catch up with her if he wanted any more answers.

**xXxXxXx**

Her footsteps echoed in her ears, the deafening tone blocking out the rest of the street. Nothing could call her back to the rest of the world, not even the sound of Doctor Watson's voice hollering her name. Truthfully, now that her righteous pride was draining away, it was being replaced with horror. A deep, shameful horror brought on by her actions.

Victoria put everything in danger, her career, her life, the well-being of William and even John…

No, not John. Doctor Watson. The doctor. The good doctor who'd given her employment, let her return to caring for children, provided her with a safe haven.

The only consolation, as she walked on through the sudden rainstorm that had descended on the city, was that she had spoken the truth.

_**And when I fall down I have to pick myself back up…so stand up, stand up for the champions…**_

"Miss Bayard…Victoria!"

John broke through her haze of hateful shame, rocking her to the core. Whipping her head around, she blanched and broke into a run.

"Don't follow me! Stay away from me!" she screamed over her shoulder, refusing to be swayed by his concern or allow him to catch her.

Eventually she would have to own up to what she'd done.

But not now. Not now.

* * *

**Author's note:** …Oh yeah, I went there. Don't be angry with me, issues will be resolved. There were really minstrel shows that traveled around the U.S. in the 1800's performing in blackface, and I imagine that some of those same shows made it over. I also imagine that people wanted to stop those stereotypes from being shown, like Victoria. Please don't be offended, since that actor got his from Victoria.

To be continued next time…have a good week, PLEASE REVIEW, and I'll see you next week!


	7. Secret Life

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**WARNING: Mentions of hatred and malice against differing races of people. Just making sure you know up front.**

**Song lyrics:** "Secret Life" by Thriving Ivory (in bold).

* * *

April 20th, 1894: 10 PM

Watson began to pace the floor of his study, eyeing the clock on the wall. He had not seen Miss Bayard since her systematic course of action against the deplorable actors that afternoon. He was on his own with William, who would not stop fretting for his nanny and therefore began crying when John's frazzled nerves reached their breaking point.

The child simply would not hush, no matter if he had his father's attention, his aunt's dandling of toys before him or his uncle's halfhearted promise of further adventure in the City. He wanted no one but Victoria.

And for all that John knew, she may not return to Cavendish Place.

Finally, after all the calming speeches and the anger-undertoned reprimands, the good doctor was forced to administer some laudanum to his own child. Not enough to kill, or even really affect him all that much, but enough to make the child sleepy. Willy dropped off to sleep with little coaxing, being rocked to dreamland by John and tucked into his small bed soon afterward.

All that was left for John to do was wait. And pace. And wonder just what on Earth had possessed her to throw water on the actor. Granted, his actions were disgusting, but something about it had shaken Victoria to her core. A rage was triggered, a feeling that unlike the others she couldn't keep under a tight restriction.

Pace, limp. Pace, limp, Pace, limp. With each limp of his damaged leg, he grew agitated. Maybe he should just fire her for worrying him so. And that thought made him even more cross; he shouldn't feel the need to be so spiteful. She hardly needed him to be so concerned. If anything she had proven herself to be quite independently minded and knowing of her own power. Victoria didn't need reassurance.

Pace, turn-

Her fearful face suddenly appearing in the doorway indicated otherwise.

_**Hangs up her coat like always, wouldn't have it any other way… Is something on your mind? Hands are cold as ice she said…**_

"Vic—Miss Bayard," Watson cut himself off from impropriety. Keeping his movements in check, he meandered over to her, rather than rush her frantically. She bobbed a habitual curtsy, but before she could run down to her room, he gripped her arm gently. Leading her into his study and closing the door promptly behind her, he gestured widely towards the chair pulled up before the fireplace. "Sit, please. We have much to speak of."

"Yes, sir," she crowed, sitting as commanded, deceivingly docile. It occurred to him that she was frightened of losing her position in that moment, and he nearly laughed; he'd put up with far worse things living with Holmes, it would take much more for her to be thrown out of his household. They shared a quiet moment of measuring each other up, a practice that was entirely too common between them now.

With a wave of exhaustion flowing through his body, Watson leaned against the mantle and tempered his voice, readying himself for an even longer night.

"Explain."

Victoria's black eyes flashed curiously, clearly wondering at why he hadn't thrown her out on her ear. He answered the look with a mere inclination of his head.

_**Tell me about your secret life and all the things you've seen…**_

"Tell me all, and no lies," he amended his initial demand. Her gaze lingered on his face, his ice blue eyes, before latching onto the weak fire dying in the fireplace.

"Very well. I've always been willful, ever since I was a child, but I've learned from a young age to control it. Better than that, I learned to act as though whatever disagreeable thing happening to or in front of me didn't matter. Whether my own brother was claiming I burned my mother's only apron instead of him doing so, or if my father lamented how useless I would be if I never married, I could pretend not to be enraged or afraid. Courage, Doctor Watson, that's what I taught myself. As the unwanted daughter in a coven of sons, one had to not cower at the power those men exerted over me. As they grew older, they grew more and more confrontational, and unfortunately for them, so did I. I was not biddable as my mother tried to train me to be, nor did I act so disharmoniously that my father had cause for complaint.

Eventually one has to find a way to expel the negative energies that builds slowly over time. My way was to sing, and act in closet dramas with close friends of the family. My brothers had their futures ready for them: working at the docks with Father, or in Gerald's case, enlisting in the army. I had nothing of my own, save for marriage, and at nineteen it was inconceivable to think myself ready, like my mother thought I was. Instead, I thought I would make my own way, and decided to spontaneously answer a caretaker advertisement in the paper. The lady of the house was on holiday in London, and liked me better than the other interviewees. Straight away I was hired, and soon made my way to America to work as nanny for the Foster family in New York."

_**You dance like a queen in spite of all the things you never wanted…when you're left out in the cold…**_

She began to rub her arms against the phantom coldness creeping into her joints.

"That was a hard winter indeed! I had no idea how cold America could be, or that the children would want to be constantly outside in the blasted snow. The only reprieve I had were stacks and stacks of Shakespeare volumes in Mr. Foster's library. The little boy and girl I cared for were an ill-tempered lot, and so after one year I left the Fosters, claiming that I was needed back home. Rather than secure passage to Britain, I went to three other families in three separate states in rapid succession, biting my tongue and caring for children that weren't mine with no hope of salvation. Two more years passed that way. My rebellious nature got the best of me when I chose to throw my caution, my reputation, and my life to the wind: I found employment at a theater in Charlston, South Carolina."

"So Mr. Holmes was correct about your acting background," Watson commented lightly, smirking to himself.

"Yes, and it was most alarming that he found that out so quickly," Victoria breathed, tucking her dark hair back.

"He has a talent for uncovering secrets at the drop of a hat. Pray, continue."

She nodded. "Indeed. For four years, I stayed at this theater house, learning the tricks of the acting trade. I was no Sarah Bernhardt, but I could hold my own upon the stage. I had the talent of masking my true feelings, so adopting a new personality atop all that was not too far of a stretch. That talent came in handy, for soon enough I knew people were hating me."

_**You speak to me in riddles, you speak to me in riddles… Puts on her face like breathing…another day in black and red…**_

Miss Bayard stood, and crossed over to the window along the far wall. Sightlessly she watched the shadows of the lamplight dance on the cobblestones.

"Being English, you learn very fast that you are unpopular in general in the United States, merely for being different. Some found the accent we carry quaint, but mostly I was ignored unless cast in a role. As a result, I had few friends…until I stumbled upon Lotte and the colored troupe of actors residing in the city. I mean that literally; I tripped across one of the actors as I was rushing to work one night and ripped through a scenery cloth he was painting for one of their productions. A colored woman came to my rescue, helping me back onto my feet and dusting my dress, as though what had happened was the young man's fault. This was Lotte. Intrigued by the idea of a colored show, I went and watched, and was fascinated. They were good, not professional but on their way. I began to go to more of their shows, and soon enough became fast friends with Lotte. The rest of the troupe mistrusted my patronage at first; and why shouldn't they, given how barbaric the southerners of America truly are?"

_**Tell me about your secret life and all the things you've seen…Tell me what you think of me…**_

Her nose wrinkled in distaste before she continued.

"I bonded with them, though we had to keep the bonds quiet. Mutually we were worried about our professions: I would not be taken seriously if I associated with them, and they could never get anywhere with a Brit trailing after them, a white Brit at that. But the bond was built nonetheless. Soon enough I was let into their families' homes, celebrated holidays with them and the like. For three years we were an undisturbed community of misfits.

Then someone learned the truth."

Watson, listening with increasing interest, leaned forward. "Whatever happened then?"

"A fellow cast member named Thomas Greenly reported that the colored troupe's men were accosting a single female member of the crew: me. He'd spotted me out with the entire colored crew three days prior, on our way to dinner at Lotte's house. I was shaken to my core, but I ran off to warn the men anyway, knowing they could be hanged or worse for simply talking with me. The southerners are a backward lot; a black man can be lynched for merely looking wrong at a white man, you learn that fast enough there. I barely reached them in time, right before a show was about to begin. Quickly they beat a hasty retreat, the women following after them. Except for Lotte and her husband Charley. She and I had grown especially close over those three years, becoming akin to the only sister I would ever have. And when the mob came…she stood beside me, yelled them down while Charley tugged on her arm to go."

_**I'll find you when the water falls…no empty house or talking walls…I'll come to you in pieces…**_

Fresh tears sprang into Victoria's eyes, the first tears John had ever seen in the ice queen, in the stone-faced woman. The doctor steadied his gaze on her upturned face, watching her memories come alive again before her.

"They dragged her out into the street, men I worked with and knew, and beat her within an inch of her life. At some point, I felt my fury override the outer calm I had trained for years to maintain. I had found a wooden board, which I later learned I had torn off the side of the theater building with my bare hands, and swung at Thomas' head. He collapsed, bleeding at the temple, his friends and my castmates running away from my mad thrashings. That momentary fright gave Charley the chance to scoop up Lotte.

'Get outta here,' he cried, anguish lining his face. 'Before they lynch us and kill you too. Don't come back!' Blindly I did as I was told, and to this day I have no idea how I made it back to my rented rooms and packed so quickly that I was at the train station an hour later. There was no time for good-byes, no time to make certain if Lotte lived or died. To protect them, I had to leave."

Taking a few steps towards Watson, Victoria let him see her true feelings of regret and torment flitting across her face.

"I still don't know if she is alive or dead. Her beating haunted me all along the way back to London, to my family's new home. My father took me in, claiming no hard feelings, but I felt his accusing glances every time I helped my mother to make dinner or when I bandaged my brother's own wounded leg when he came back from service. I feared he could see her blood in my eyes, if I am to be completely and morbidly honest."

Deathly silence followed, with her sitting down on a corner of his desk and him observing her coolly.

_**Your silhouette is still my reflection…You speak to me in riddles, you speak to me in riddles…**_

With her black eyes clamped on the carpet at her feet, she whispered, "That is why I…watered that man down. He represents the men who practically killed my best friend out of serious misrepresentations and hatred. At eight and twenty years I should've known better than to act so rashly. I understand if you no longer wish to employ someone with such a tarnished reputation in your house. If need be, I can be packed and gone by sunrise."

Rising to go, she was stopped only by Watson's fast shuffle across the room, his strong hand clasping her shoulder.

"You may stay, Miss Bayard."

She froze, stunned. "E-excuse me?"

His fingers twitched, refusing to settle as he gathered his thoughts.

"You have given me a truthful explanation of why you did what you did this afternoon. For that I thank you. And as for a tarnished reputation…" he paused, swallowing hard and ignoring the scandalized voice of his mother in his head, "there is no such thing to forgive you of. Befriending people is nothing to be ashamed of, least of all in a profession that has you so separated from society. Her unfair punishment was not of your doing; following what your conscience told you is not your fault either. Rather I think of that as an asset. And frankly, there is no one I trust or like better to care for my son. He truly cares for you in a way I've never seen him care for anyone else."

'_Like you were his true mother…like you are Mary…'_

"Except for his father." The nanny and the doctor both smiled at her remark, the humor relieving the tension of the moment.

"Except for me," John agreed, glad of a way to get Victoria to shuck off her guilt briefly. "I am asking you to please keep your position. This afternoon's indiscretion is…nothing compared to what I have dealt with before."

At the implication of all the misdeeds he'd gotten Mr. Holmes out of in the past, Victoria laughed outright, clamping her hand on her mouth to cover her further impropriety. Smoothly Watson balanced his cane on his hip and used his free hand to pull her digits down. There was no need to smother the joy; the house could stand a bit more hilarity from its residents other than from the young boy snoozing upstairs. In that moment they stayed suspended, his hands pressing softly on her shoulder and wrist, black and blue eyes connecting them even more so.

_**Tell me about your secret life, and all the things you've seen…Tell me what you think of me…**_

The humor died with every passing second, giving way to the unspoken feelings, regrets, and individual memories passing between them. Without verbalizing it, they realized in those ticking minutes that they needed each other. They were saving each other's lives.

"Stay?" he asked, his tone dropping into a low murmur. With difficulty, she wrestled her rebel desires under the strict mental corset once again, and Victoria moved away from his burning touch. She swept him a deep curtsy before retiring for the night, breathing her first steady breath in hours.

"Yes, Doctor Watson. Thank you."

* * *

**Author's note:** So now you know why she did what she did. Sad about her friend, truly…Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Sorry I was a little late, several projects for school needed to be first priority, but here it is! So thanks for reading, PLEASE REVIEW, and I'll see you guys next week!


	8. I Won't Back Down

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "I Won't Back Down" by Tom Petty (in bold).

* * *

May 17th, 1894

"Dear…God."

It was all Watson could croak as his eyes took in the scene. He felt Holmes tense up beside him, but he didn't see the rise of eyebrows that was the only indicator of the detective's shock. It had seemed that their exploits earlier in the day had just been topped by a more domestic disturbance.

Cavendish Place had been ripped apart from the inside out. Tables were overturned, books torn off their shelves and thrown all around. Everything on legs was upended and everything in drawers was on the floor, essentially. Tapping a dangling mirror with his cane, the good doctor jumped back when it smashed down.

He'd gone numb since he'd walked in the door, discussing the likelihood of assassins in Holmes' current case. The home he'd built with Mary was destroyed, by someone who clearly despised his existence.

"Multiple persons did this," Sherlock muttered behind him, gingerly stepping over scattered photographs and their damaged frames. Carefully he led the way to Watson's study, continuing, "Out here it was willful destruction and random, but I wager they may have been looking for something in your files."

"Such as what? I'm a mere doctor, Holmes, and a war veteran. Many other men can make that claim in this very city," John sputtered, lowering himself painfully onto one leg and scooping up a scratched picture of his deceased wife. "I'm nothing special."

'_I'm so sorry, Mary, I'm so sorry this beautiful home you've created has been victimized…'_

"And in years past I would agree with those facts. However, I'm disinclined to do so now, since you've began publishing our, shall we say, adventures and early cases," Holmes replied, the sound of drawers scraping out reaching Watson's ears. "Now, it appears someone has a score to settle with you, because of our association."

Watson got back on his feet, clutching the photograph close as he rounded the corner. The door itself bore signs of harsh treatment, with the door lock completely broken off.

"And how are you so certain it's because of my association with you?"

Sherlock, standing in the sea of strewn papers and a toppled desk, held aloft an empty file labeled "journals". John's stomach plummeted, while his friend smirked with no real amusement.

"Because your scribbles on said exploits are missing. Don't bother checking the floor, they're none of them there."

"This is madness," grumbled the doctor, rolling his eyes heavenward. "Why on Earth would my writings matter this much to someone? Just because of what I've…"

He trailed off, falling into the same train of thought Holmes was already speeding down.

"It's something I haven't published yet, something the perpetrator did not want made public."

The sleuth nodded. "Right, old boy. Irrevocably correct."

"Which of the convicted felons could have possibly been released recently? I've made sure none of the ones I've published about would be set free anytime soon, if at all," Watson gasped, filtering through the papers on the ground for his daily newspaper. Holmes aided him in the search, dark eyes glued to the photograph still in his companion's hand.

_**Well I won't back down, no I won't back down. You can stand me up at the gates of hell but I won't back down…**_

"As of right now, only Jackson and Owens from the Childress abduction are appealing their cases to the courts…unless…"

It was his turn to halt his speech, brow furrowing in deep thought.

"Moriarty. You have not written about him, yes?"

John shook his head. "Of course not. I promised not to until you've officially retired."

Holmes grunted. "Well, it appears that he still has supporters out there, ones who would dearly like nothing told about that murderous mathematician."

Both men grimaced, until a new wave of horror seized Watson. It was interesting, from the detective's perspective, to see his comrade's many emotions flick across his face until abject terror took hold. He himself wondered how long it would take for John to ask himself more questions, particularly the one that had just entered in mind.

"Dear God in Heaven…William!"

Never before had Holmes seen the doctor move with such speed and determination. He followed swiftly, undeterred even by John's hysterical screeches for his boy or the nanny. As his desperation grew, Sherlock deduced that he would have to step in before he'd hurt himself. Standing in the middle of the stairwell, the detective stayed put as an end table came flying out of what could only be Willy's room. The unfamiliar feeling of guilt and concern fired deep in Holmes' body; this wasn't going to end well.

Then, a whisper came to his ears from the very back of the house. "Doctor…?"

"Watson! Someone's here!" Sherlock crowed up the stairs, coasting down them to find the source of the weak words. Banging open the door to the pantry, he found the housekeeper Mrs. Roberts crumpled against the back wall, amidst broken pottery and shattered glass. The back door itself hung wide open, the flour spilled before it containing three sets of footprints: two male, one female. The woman herself appeared to have suffered a blow to the back of the head, as her hand kept rubbing the sore spot, along with a few cuts to her arms.

The doctor hit him square in the back, causing them both to tumble to the ground. Grumbling in minor irritation, Holmes pushed him off towards the poor crying housekeeper.

"She appears to have suffered only from a minor abrasion to the head, most likely to incapacitate her and keep her from screaming. The cuts I wager came from when she tried to pick herself up off the glass," he mentioned mechanically, attempting to keep the doctor steady with his tone of voice. He looked to Mrs. Roberts expectantly. "Am I correct, madam?"

"Yes," she murmured, dropping her hands into her lap and leaning her head carefully against the far wall. John had no choice but to remember his Hippocratic Oath and tend to the woman's ills. As he examined her wounds, she blubbered, "They came right after you left, Doctor. Two men, in black clothing."

"Were they workers?" Holmes cut in, eyeing up the footprints just beyond them.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Holmes. Looked like men who worked in the factory or on the docks or something. They just came running in, rifling through all the books in the library, threatening to take off my head if I so much as called for help. Miss Bayard was upstairs with the little master, and didn't know, and I knew I had to warn her. So when the men went into your study, I slammed the door shut behind them and locked it quickly. Victoria was already halfway down the stairs, William in tow, her footing fumbling on the debris. I told her to take William and run, just as the men started cracking through the door," she said, hissing in pain when the doctor probed her bump gently. "I pushed her towards the pantry and she wasn't more than one step out the door before the men burst out. We both stared at them for a moment, and they stared at us until I grabbed up my flour jar and threw it at them. It shattered and they repaid my work with a hard thump to the head. Victoria was already gone by then, but when I came to the men had disappeared. I heard your voice, sir, so I knew I was safe then."

_**No I'll stand my ground, won't be turned around, and I'll keep this world from draggin' me down…**_

Watson's grimace became deeper. "Have any idea where she might've run?"

The housekeeper snorted, in a rather unladylike fashion. "Of course. I suggested my family's house 'round the bend, but she insisted that she go to Baker Street. To your home, Mister Holmes."

At that, Sherlock blanched and his eyes grew wide. It was obvious the men had followed her out of the house, so naturally they would come across…

"Madeline," he breathed hoarsely. The terror in his gut had doubled; a missing nephew would've been enough, but now his wife and unborn child were also at stake. John nodded unnecessarily, telling Mrs. Roberts to go to her family home and wait for word there. She hardly needed to be asked twice, as she immediately scooted out the door and down the lane.

_**Hey baby, there ain't no easy way out…and I won't back down...**_

Without another word being said to one another, the men took off on foot for 221B, not daring contemplating what could possibly have befallen the most precious people in their separate lives.

**xXxXxXx**

Somewhere around ten minutes into their journey, the duo realized they'd never make it on time if the continued to run, and so a cab was hastily hired. Holmes paid double upfront for the driver to forgo precaution and speed to the house, easily cutting their trip's time in half.

Palming his revolver, Watson cut his eyes at his compatriot, whose leg was about to bounce out of the hansom before they stopped fully. Lurching forward, the sleuth was reined in by the doctor's cool grip on his shoulder.

"We go in there quickly and quietly. No rash actions, no charging ahead with guns firing," he recited, his military training taking over. "This has to be done systematically."

_**Well I know what's right, I got just one life in a world that keeps on pushin' me around, but I'll stand my ground…**_

"Naturally," Sherlock almost snarled, eager to get away from the digging fingers in his shoulder. Slowly they both descended from the cab, and were greeted with the sight of Mrs. Hudson waving her arms wildly on the stoop.

"Doctor! Mr. Holmes! Hurry," she cried, leading the way up the stairs. "They said they wouldn't do anything until you both got here, refused to let me call the police."

The men shared a glance of fury at the thought of their loved ones being captured. How dare those criminals set upon two helpless women and a young child? Was there no mercy in their souls?

"Mrs. Holmes absolutely insisted I wait until you came back."

That caused Holmes to halt on the second to last stair up. "Excuse me? My wife said not to call the police? When she is the one in danger?"

Mrs. Hudson flashed him a harried look. "She's hardly the one in danger, Mr. Holmes."

Arriving outside the rooms, the housekeeper swung open the main door, revealing a startling sight. The two men who had vandalized the Watson home were on the floor, tied back to back. They were indeed in dark clothing, but their shirts were loosened and ripped up. The room itself was a mess, but that was hardly out of the ordinary compared to the presence of the two men. Their ankles were bound as well, and blood trickled down their faces over fresh bruises. One had a deep cut over his left eye. Hovering over the two unfortunate criminals was Madeline, clad in a mussed day dress and pointing her rapier towards the door. Victoria stood just beyond her, two billy clubs clutched in her hands and her black eyes shooting daggers at the portal. Her dress was wrent at the neck to reveal her corset, her cap knocked out her dark hair. Both had intent in their powerful postures.

At least, until they realized who was standing in the doorframe.

"Thank God, Sherlock, you're home," Madeline crooned, lowering the rapier to her side. "These fools burst upon us with hardly any notice."

"Yes indeed, I'm glad you came as well, Doctor," Victoria said, setting the clubs on book-stacked desk by the window. Bustling into the other room, she opened the wardrobe and retrieved Willy, who had been curled up in one of Holmes' overcoats and sleeping soundly. Wordlessly, she returned the child to his agog father.  
_**  
Hey I will stand my ground…and I won't back down...**_

"Just what…how did…what…" Watson tried to regain his faculties. "How did a nanny and a lady who is four months pregnant do all this?"

"Yes, tell us. This is absolutely fascinating," Sherlock said, being guided into the room by his wife and seated in his favorite chair. The women glanced at one another, curious as to who should begin the tale.

_Victoria stared at the two men, gaping at their horrid intrusion upon the house. They had come for something, it appeared to be for some of the doctor's papers (if the journals in their hands were any indication). Clutching William closer, she pivoted sharply on her heel, hoofing it down the back stairs as Mrs. Roberts flung a jar in the men's direction. Gathering her skirt up in one hand and keeping Willy tight to her body with the other, she pushed through the crowds onto the street. She elected to stay on foot for awhile, thinking that the men would think she'd gotten into a cab and sped away._

"_Get her! She's right there!"_

_Or perhaps not. Turning left, she scrambled across the cobblestoned street into a random person's home, pushing past terrified servants and scandalized ladies and gentlemen. William's little hands dug into her skin in surprise, his large blue eyes growing wider as they continued to dodge down the lanes. Then she spotted him: an unattended horse tied up outside a tiny leatherworks shop. Throwing caution to the wind she clambered onto the animal's back, freeing him from the hitching post and leaving their pursuers in the dust._

_Riding astride was not an easy task, let alone riding astride with a small boy in front of you on the unfamiliar saddle. But somehow Victoria managed to keep her seat and Willy's until they arrived at the Baker Street residence. Kicking her feet out of the stirrups, she ignored the gasps of the women walking the streets around her as she dismounted and sent the horse on its way. Without a moment's hesitation, she barged in the front door, trailed by a shocked Mrs. Hudson until she had pushed her way into the famous Holmes rooms._

_Madeline had been sitting for tea at that moment, and was about to scold Mrs. Hudson for intruding on her private time until her gaze caught Victoria standing there instead._

"_Miss Bayard, what has happened?" she asked, rising from her seat. Mrs. Hudson tried to say her piece and throw the nanny out, but Victoria would have none of that._

"_Two men…they broke into the house. Stole some of the doctor's property. I tried to escape with William but we were seen and chased," she replied, running into the room and scanning it for a hiding place for the boy. "It's only a matter of time until they find me here. They were following very closely."_

_Madeline's face creased with anxiety. "Oh, good Lord. Mrs. Hudson, I think it would be best if you went to your rooms and stayed there until I call for you."_

"_But, Mrs. Holmes-"_

"_I promise you that nothing will happen. Now go," the lady commanded, springing into action as the housekeeper flew back down the steps. "How far behind you were they again?"_

_Victoria shrugged, shifting Willy to her left arm and checking under the bed for any free space._

"_Two minutes, five minutes maximum."_

"_Very well. Hide him in the wardrobe in Watson's old rooms," Mrs. Holmes replied, unlocking a trunk and pushing up the heavy lid. As Victoria exited in that direction, she noticed the genteel woman was extracting a sword and several other bits of weaponry._

_Upon opening the wardrobe doors, the nanny panicked when she glimpsed the two assailants out the window. Hurriedly she shoved the young boy inside, telling him to be quiet and stay hidden before shutting the doors quickly on him. He squealed in protest, but soon enough did as he was told._

"_Mrs. Holmes, I don't…" she started, only to be cut off by billy clubs being thrown in her directions. Catching them clumsily, she gawked at the clearly trained stance the detective's wife had taken._

"_We can do this," Madeline countered her doubts. "Just swing with all your might, stay out of their grasps, and let me at them first."_

"_But you're pregnant, Madeline!" The nanny gulped, completely bypassing propriety. The lady in question whipped her head in her direction, a strained smile gracing her lips._

"_Just because I am with child hardly means I'm useless, Victoria."_

_At that moment, the two men rounded the corner, and all hell broke loose._

"This one tried to get at me, but I attacked and cut him above the eye. He fell away, allowing me to administer a few more blows to his body before I slammed the hilt against his skull," Madeline finished, pointing her rapier fluidly at one of the men. "The other-"

"Jumped at me, pinning me under his weight. Since he too occupied with tearing my dress, he never saw the clubs until they were smashing his face. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, curling up when I continued to slam the clubs into him. Once he finally fainted, we tied them up and called Mrs. Hudson, telling her to not go for help until Mr. Holmes came back."

Madeline nodded, grinning. "I knew you would need the evidence to corroborate her story. The journals are over on the desk now…I daresay it's true what they say about not letting work invade the home. Turns out there is a very real need to keep your work out of the house, Sherlock."

Sherlock and John sat entranced, being awed by their tale. Certainly they knew strong women before who could fight (Irene Adler was a prime example), but never had the battle been fought so close to home. Least of all did they expect these women to have to defend their homes, their children. It was, quite possibly, the most endearing story they'd heard about the women.

_**Hey baby, there ain't no easy way out, hey I will stand my ground…and I won't back down…**_

"Well…uh…" Holmes sat upright in his chair, patting the arms briefly. "I suppose we can take them to Scotland Yard then. Madeline, let's go find one of the patrolmen. I believe MacArthur is on duty today."

The lady took his outstretched hand, letting herself be guided out of the room, only pausing to kick one of the roused criminals back into submission. Victoria, having settled against the desk for the duration of the tale, pulled at the front of her bodice, trying to tuck it so her corset would not be overly revealed. As she tended to that she missed the meaningful gaze John had fixed on her.

This woman, this fantastic woman, had put her own life on the line for his boy, for his friend's wife and her child. She just acted, with no thought to herself but for William. Setting the sleeping boy into Holmes' empty chair, Watson rose and crossed the room without the aid of his cane and swept Victoria up in a tight embrace.

"Thank you for protecting my son," he whispered, "Thank you so much, Victoria."

Tentatively her arms wound around his torso, her chin resting on his shoulder and her eyelids fluttering shut for a few minutes.

"You're welcome, sir."

He pulled back enough so he could look her in the eye. "I believe that this situation does not call for such propriety. It's John."

She blinked, shaking her hair loose. "I…very well, John."

Again he pulled her close, some magnetic force within them holding them there for long than was appropriate, holding them there in the moment. And until the Holmes' came back, they wouldn't let go, too frightened by the darkest parts of their minds replaying the afternoon's events.

* * *

**Author's note:** Holy crap, long chapter! Seriously, once I started it, it just wouldn't stop writing itself. I've had this picture of Madeline and Victoria kicking butt for awhile, and finally I can do it! Woot woot! Well, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, hopefully I will update it on time next week, PLEASE REVIEW, and I'll see you next time!


	9. A Change is Gonna Come

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "A Change is Gonna Come" by Sam Cooke (in bold).

* * *

May 21st, 1894

Once the attackers had been arraigned and Lestrade called in for special protective services, the doctor and the detective, trailed by the nanny and the wife, surveyed the extent of the damage to Cavendish Place. More than just shelves and tables had been turned over; scrapes and gouges were left in the floor, dents and holes graced the walls all along the hallway. The glass in the windowpanes of the kitchen had shattered, and at least two doors had been kicked in. Sherlock guesstimated, his sums backed up by the repairmen, that it would take around a week to fix the damages.

For the duration of the repairs to the Watson household, John, William and Victoria moved into the empty rooms of Baker Street, carrying a shaking Gladstone back to his spot by the fireplace.

"The rooms missed your presence, doctor, to be sure. They appear to take on a new light now that you've returned," Sherlock remarked once the trio had been settled in. He and John had been reclining in the two easy chairs of the lounge, while Miss Bayard was dutifully putting William to bed.

The good doctor snorted. "Still a creature of nostalgia, eh?"

Holmes had the grace to smirk. "As ever, my dear Boswell."

_**It's been a long, a long time coming, but I know a change is gonna come, oh yes it will…**_

For Watson, it was a completely bizarre experience. For nearly three years he'd been out of 221B, freed from his best friend's horrible machinations on the domicile and the frequent terrified fury of the landlady. Once again, he thanked God for Madeline's steady presence. With all her nosiness and impulsiveness, she had a sturdy calm about her that kept her husband in a sort of check.

Having her being five months pregnant may also have had something to do with it. John was not about to complain on the issue, however. He certainly knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Willy kept gushing on and on how he loved being with Auntie Maddy and Uncle Sherle all the day long (he still was unable to say "Sherlock", and frankly everybody but the man in question found the pronunciation too adorable to correct). The little boy gallivanted at his will and pleasure, getting into nearly as much trouble as his dear uncle. For him, though, it passed as being youthful foolishness and not paid much attention to.

Victoria, for the sake of propriety, stayed on the ground floor with Mrs. Hudson, but in reality was continuously upstairs with the Watson and Holmes clans.

It was fascinating, she thought, to be working so close to a deductive genius such as Mr. Holmes. Granted, the only reason she ever strayed to the Holmes side was to rescue Willy from his uncle's frenetic experimentation, or even to pull old Gladstone back from the brink, but she could see the brilliance from her fleeting observations.

What was so strange to her, however, was the laxness of societal strictures. Everyone (except for Sherlock, but that hardly went without saying) was cordial with Mrs. Hudson, but with her they behaved with familiarity. It was unheard of in a gentleman's house. Within the first two days, Madeline had crossed the threshold into Watson's rooms and asked Victoria to sit over tea with her while the men were out on a case.

"Excuse me, ma'am, for asking, but why on Earth would you desire my company?" she had to ask, letting William out of her arms to play with the lazing bulldog. "Surely a lady of your stature has better things to do, and better people to associate with, than-"

"Please stow the false modesty, Victoria, along with the titles. John may have you under his thumb regarding titles, but I certainly don't care for it," the missus cut her off, pouring her a cup smoothly.

Victoria frowned. "I am not under his thumb at all!"

She received a wink for her outburst. "Much better, my dear. If I am to be perfectly honest, I invited you for tea to become better acquainted. After all, we've gone through a sort of trial together, and I'd like to know more about the woman who protected me and mine."

Madeline rearranged her skirt demurely, taking the bitter edge off her next words.

"Besides, if I've learned anything from my time in this house, it's not to take the measure of someone by whether they are working class or not."

_**It's been too hard living, but I'm afraid to die cuz I don't know what's up there beyond the sky…**_

"Were you not the wife of a barrister, ma'am, before marrying Mr. Holmes? In any case, you are above me in that respect, and I don't want to impede on something that could potentially hurt me in the future," Victoria responded lightly, unsure of what reply she would get. Truthfully she was enjoying the discourse; she'd been sorely lacking for female company.

"Yes, but before that I was a shopkeeper's daughter living off a great-aunt's charity. I know where I came from, and marriage does not change who you are. Not too much," she amended quickly. "Now, enough of this nonsense. I find you an interesting person, and I'd like to know you better. Do not be so suspicious, please."

Both women shared a hard laugh at that. It was useless advice to a runaway actress and the wife of a detective, but it eased the tension.

"Given my experience of people, I've every right to be suspicious. No offense."

"None taken, though I think an explanation of that is called for."

Victoria bared her teeth in a grim smile. "Let's just say the actor I poured water on is one of those to have shown me that reality."

Madeline grimaced. "Ah…still care to humor the poor, pregnant woman with a story anyway?"

_**It's been a long, a long time coming, but I know a change is gonna come, oh yes it will…**_

A smirk greeted her bright green eyes. "Perhaps…pass the sugar, please."

**xXxXxXx**

"Holmes, I need a few moments here. Stop the cab."

About to object, Holmes clamped his mouth shut when he realized where the carriage was stopping. For the whole of the ride, in fact the whole of the morning, John had seemed quite melancholy. When asked why by his companion's wife, he just turned it over with some sort of bright excuse, and left it at that. Now, upon seeing the location he was disembarking to, Sherlock conceded him the moodiness, it making a lot of sense.

"I missed the day to see her. It will not happen again," Watson sighed, unable to take his gaze off the ground. Holmes found himself nodding unnecessarily, drumming his thumbs against his thighs awkwardly.

"Right, old chap, take your time. Lady MacDooley's missing diamonds pale in comparison to this. I'll go on to the scene, stay as long as you need to."

The doctor gave him a mournful grin. "Thank you, old boy."

"Take care, Boswell."

_**Somebody keeps telling me "don't hang around"…It's been a long, a long time coming, but I know a change is gonna come, oh yes it will…**_

With that, the cab door swung back into place, Sherlock's meaningful look latched onto John's drooping form until he rounded a corner and could be seen no longer. Slowly, he pivoted, walking down the graveled pathway through the large arched gate. The graveyard appeared empty for the day, except for a groundskeeper tending to a stone far off in the distance. Church bells rang out to him as he entered the hallowed ground, passing the names of a thousand faces he'd never met or known. Having visited several times in the past, he knew the track by heart, turning right by Samuel K. Waterson and going on for about thirty-five more feet.

The newly blooming trees in the thicket beyond swayed, as waving and welcoming him back. He grinned whimsically, thinking on how he'd chosen this place out of all the others in London.

"_I've only been to the countryside once my whole life. There was a beautiful cottage my family and I stayed in on holiday one year, set by a charming meadow. Thick oaks made up a miniature forest that my sisters and I would play in. I've always wanted to go back, but I've never had the time or the money for a ticket," Mary confessed sweetly, when John caught her mooning over a photograph for several days. It was sent to her by her cousin Ashton who lived out in the country, his letter begging her to come out for a spell. What with William just being born, and a grieving Madeline to attend to, though, it seemed an impossible request to fulfill._

"_Perhaps one day soon, my dear," John promised her, enfolding her in his strong embrace._

He couldn't give her the country, but he thought that even in death she would enjoy the trees and the splendor of their forms. Watson closed his eyes, allowed the breeze to brush past him and crackle the greening leaves nearby. When he opened them again, he found himself face to face with her headstone.

_Mary Elizabeth Watson…beloved wife, mother, friend…_

"Hullo, Mary," he began, brushing his forefinger along the granite's cool edge. "I know I missed your…your death date, but it will not happen again, I promise you."

Silence greeted his ear, bidding him to continue.

"William is doing well. Growing into a fine boy. You…you would be very proud of him, my darling…so curious about the world, and incredibly intelligent. And perceptive; he's more intuitive than I've ever given a child credit for. He knows when something is wrong, simply by watching how someone acts. He's certainly inheriting your traits, my love."

Another breeze flowed by. He figured she was pleased to hear it.

"You know, I still think about you, and dream about you. I love you dearly. I don't think I'll ever stop loving you…"

He twisted his cane between his hands, almost nervous to go on. He'd had more dreams than he'd let on, about another person on the earthbound plane. In fact, the person was in close proximity daily, causing his heart to pound with emotion he thought solely reserved for his beloved. Mary had to know, he had to tell her…ask her for something more.

"But…could you ever forgive me, would you ever want me to…to go on? Find someone else? I swear to you, if you could not bear it, I would not indulge in such a thing, but…if somebody came into my life, could you…give me your blessing? I simply need to know. I could not break your heart that way. I love you so much, Mary, just know that."

Her grave could give him no verbal answers, the air had gone still around him. Somehow, though, John could feel her cool, loving eyes looking upon him. In his mind's eye he saw Mary, glorious Mary, turn on her heel and take the sight of him in. A vision of ethereal beauty, she pointed to the sky, the smallest of smiles gracing her lips.

_**There been times that I thought I wouldn't last for long…Now think I'm able to carry on…**_

The waking dream retreated from him swiftly back into the darkest recesses of his mind, leaving John without a clue what she meant. Did she want him to appeal to God for such a request? Was she telling him that his answers lay in the clouds? Wrenching his blues eyes upward, he caught sight of a flying gaggle of geese, heading north. Turning around to watch them go by, their formation burned its image forever into his memory. The "V" they formed was wide and deep, incredibly pronounced for the flock.

Perhaps this was the answer Mary was trying to give him. It was up to him now whether he could take it to heart or not. John had to decide if he had the constitution to go forth and pursue the answer, without breaking himself in the process.

_**It's been a long, a long time coming, but I know a change is gonna come, oh yes it will… **_

Pressing a kiss to his fingertips, he laid his hand gently on the headstone, bidding his dear wife good-bye. He had to go on now, his life had to go on, and Mary herself had shown him the way.

* * *

**Author's note:** Late, late, again I'm late! I'm soooo sorry! It just seems I can't keep a consistent schedule on this story, except for "almost weekly". Meh…anyway, I don't know if I mentioned this, but I don't intend this story to be as long as "Blood Bond" is. So if it seems to be progressing a little faster than in the last story, I'm sorry…Watson is a bit more open to feelings than Holmes, though, so things in that department would probably happen a lot faster for him. Just saying…anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter, I should be on time next week, hopefully, so PLEASE REVIEW and I'll see you all then!


	10. Bittersweet Symphony

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Bittersweet Symphony" by The Verve (in bold).

* * *

May 23rd, 1894

The work at Cavendish Place was picking up pace, the floors finally cared for and the walls next to be fixed. The good doctor was relieved; perhaps he and his tight unit could return to their home within the next few days. Holmes, being completely bored by his tedious and easily-solved case, had resorted to frightening levels of experimentation to pass the time. Poor John cringed, thinking back on the day before when he'd returned from the cemetery to find the literal floorboards on fire. Sherlock claimed it was a contained fire, and for the longest time would let no one touch it.

Thanks to Victoria's swift tossing of the contents of her mop bucket, though, the flames were put out. And she received quite a tongue lashing for her efforts.

"_I've had just about enough of this! Miss Bayard, though you mean well I'm sure, you should not have interfered. I had the situation entirely under control," the detective grumbled, sadly scooping up the pitch and paper left upon the floor._

"_Sir, I simply did not want William to be scorched," she explained, her argument rather weak because the boy in question was napping. Sherlock was not for a moment led on._

"_Do not make the mistake of thinking that you are acting out of sole interest for the boy. If the doctor had not made such a fuss about it all-"_

_John immediately jumped in. "Enough! Holmes, the matter is dealt with. Let's put it aside."_

_Victoria flashed him a look of sheer embarrassment, before dropping a curtsy and bustling back downstairs. Holmes for his part started to glance curiously at the empty air where she had stood._

"_She wasn't mopping. The corridor was absolutely empty until you came home," he breathed._

"_Meaning?" Watson wondered, exasperated._

"_She was listening for you. Miss Bayard only came upstairs when she heard your voice."_

"_I'm not surprised at all, considering how there was a fire to be fretting about. Of course she'd heard me."_

_Sherlock held up a finger. "Ah, but then would not have Mrs. Hudson come up to? Your volume was pitched too low for anyone to have really heard more than a muffle had they heard it through the floorboards. She either has a keen ear, or-"_

_John's cutting glare made him break off in his speech, and Madeline's return from her visit to the bookstore allowed the subject to be changed. He certainly did not like what was implied in Holmes' observations. He did not want any sort of inference to be made on that front at all._

As he thought back on it, and his trip to Mary's grave, he knew that he was going to have to keep Sherlock from guessing at all. That would be no easy task, even if he recruited the help of his friend's wife. No, no, this was going to have to be developed slowly, and to his liking. Distractions, though, were few and far between for Mr. Holmes. He sat in the kitchen, gnawing on a piece of bread left over from the midday meal and pondered his quandary. Mulling over a few strategies in his head, he never heard the doorbell ringing, or the surprised gasp of Mrs. Hudson. It took Holmes himself to growl before the doctor began to pay attention.

"What in blue blazes are you doing here?" his voice crawled to the doctor's ears beyond the door. Intrigued, John slowly rose from his seat, inched over to the swinging door and opened it a tad. Through the slim crack he saw his friend's back, his body tensing significantly. Just over his shoulder, Watson glimpsed the figure of an older man, the glare of the sunlight through the open front door blending out his features.

_**'Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, this life…trying to make ends meet…I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down…**_

"Is that any way to greet your father, boy?" the gentleman chided quietly, taking a few steps forward and leaning heavily on a cane. John jerked back, nearly betraying his hiding spot by colliding with the pots and pans situated behind him. Thankfully it appeared that neither Holmes nor his father had heard him. The turn of the elder Holmes' head indicated he was inspecting the house, but Watson could glean nothing of his interest until he spoke again. "You certainly keep a fine house, my lad. It's a shame that so much time has slipped by until I could see it for myself."

Holmes ground his teeth. "Indeed, sir."

"Well, I suppose I still not have answered your question, my fine detective-son. You see, I meant what I said about sending you letters until you would agree to meet with me again. And as they are not returned to me, I know you have at least received them if nothing else," the elder murmured, coming out of the light fully as Mrs. Hudson finally shut the door. He waited until she bustled down to the cellar before continuing, "So I thought, why wait on you to make your decision? I hardly think it's proper to make your own father wait to meet his daughter-in-law. And here I am, two train fares later."

Shifting as silently as possible, John adjusted his view until he could observe the gentleman fully. Alastair Holmes had Sherlock's eyes, Mycroft's nose, and a demeanor that was clearly all his own. His hair had gone a full grey, but one could easily see it was the same coloring as his sons when he had been a young man. His height, average at best, was undermined by the cane he relied on to caper around the room. His eyes cut around in a way that took John back; he could now fully see the family resemblance between this man and his friend. They both looked at the world in a cold, studious way, though his brown gaze held a plethora more pain and experience than his son's.

"You of course are relying on the fact that because you sired me I will not eject you from the property?" Holmes muttered harshly, his frowned deepened by his father unaffected laughter.

"Sherlock, this meeting was inevitable. Do not act so unintelligent about the matter. Besides, if that were your true intention, you would have me out on my ear already," Alastair pointed out, pulling out a handkerchief and swiping at his watering eyes. "Come now, boy, introduce me to your lovely bride."

Gritting his teeth for a moment, Sherlock turned towards the staircase, hollering for Madeline to come downstairs and greet their "most exalted visitor". The mockery did not go unnoticed by Alastair; the gaze he cast upon his youngest child was hardly parental at all.

"Sherlock, who has…" Madeline's voice trailed off, as did her descent from the second floor. Alastair's head turned in her direction, his appraising gaze sliding over her. He took in her swollen stomach, her sweet face, and light brown hair that was pulled back sharply in the fashion favored these days. From the way his shifted his stance, she met with his approval, at least physically.

_**I'm here in my mold , I am here in my mold, but I'm a million different people from one day to the next…I can't change my mold, no, no, no, no, no…**_

"Fine work, son," he breathed. To the lady, he half bowed. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Holmes. I am Sherlock's father, Alastair Holmes. It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

"Yours as well, sir. I have been trying to convince my husband to allow me to meet you for some time now, I am glad to see someone has finally taken the initiative," she responded. "Shall we go into the lounge? Victoria can bring us tea while we get better acquainted."

"I don't think-" Sherlock tried to cut off his father's exuberant acceptance, but it was no use. The offer was taken up, and with the lady on his elbow the older man led the way through the lounge's doors. The younger Holmes followed, closing the doors behind them and thus destroying Watson's chance to eavesdrop.

And then the kitchen door banged into his shoulder. Muffling his yelp of pain, he swiftly grabbed the arm of whoever was pushing the panels into him and dragged her down to his level. Luckily it was just Victoria, whose face was flushing bright red at the close contact with her employer.

"Doctor, this is not at all-"

"Yes, I know, it's indecent, but what I am about to ask you is of the utmost importance and requires absolute secrecy," he babbled, pulling her closer to whisper in her ear. He felt a blush creep up his own neck, but shook off the rush as best he could. "You need to tell me what they are speaking of. I need to know what Sherlock might say to his father."

_**I need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me, yeah …I let the melody shine, let it cleanse my mind, I feel free now…**_

The nanny's jaw dropped in shock. "His father? That man was his father?"

"Yes, and I need to know what will happen in there. They've not really spoken for twenty years, and…"

"I'm to be serving them tea, sir. It would be improper to listen in on their conversation," she said, pushing the situation aside. Getting up, she put as much distance between them as she could, still bright red in the face. As she filled the teapot with water, though, she appeared thoughtful. "Don't you think, doctor, that perhaps Mr. Holmes might have a system of spying around this house?"

John nodded. "Absolutely. I saw him developing the said system myself seven years ago. He was trying to occupy himself after a case was completed, and since it was not something dangerous, I let it go. Certain knotholes in the wood, screens behind a few paintings."

"Any that are on the lounge?" Victoria found this completely fascinating; a detective putting spyholes in his own house, hilarious!

"Yes. Since his rooms are directly above them, he drilled a hole in the floor to observe clients in the lounge before meeting them," he exclaimed, pushing himself onto his feet haphazardly. The nanny abandoned the teapot in favor of catching him before his bad leg floored him. Pressing the cane he'd left on the counter into his grip, she propelled him out the door.

"Use that, then."

"Will do," Watson whispered, attempting to be inconspicuous as he opened the kitchen door. Over his shoulder he told her, "Come back upstairs, report to me if you can."

Instead of proclaiming that she was too good for that work, she giggled and shot him a fast wink.

_**No change, I can't change, I can't change, I can't change, but I'm here in my mold , I am here with my mold…**_

"Do as the doctor orders, then?" she said under her breath, her phrase rewarded by the bright grin thrown back at her. Her right hand shot out and began banging a few pots around, giving John good cover as he hobbled his way up to Holmes' rooms. Performing a short investigation of his own, he found the lost floor hole beneath a stack of newspapers from 1888, 1886, and 1890 respectfully. It was a minute opening, giving enough of a view to see someone seated on the settee but not much else. The sound in comparison was superb.

"…Lively child, as I'm certain yours will be," Alastair guffawed, taking the tea he was offered by Victoria off the tray. "Sherlock was constantly gamboling about the estate at Chichester, always getting into trouble and asking questions."

"I can believe it," Madeline replied equably, her voice sounding a bit amused and more than slightly strained. Watson could hear, just barely, the grinding of Holmes' teeth. "Thank you, Victoria, you may go now."

"Son, I must say that you have done very well for yourself," Alastair rejoined, turning his head in what had to be Sherlock's direction.

Holmes' response was entirely emotionless. "Aye, Father. I'm so proud to live up to your expectations."

"Don't you back-sass me, Sherlock Montgomery. Wasting your life on petty experiments and discovering where a lady mislaid her handkerchief is hardly a worthy avocation. Building a family and a home, providing for loved ones with a steady income, that is what every man in our family has done," the father chastised him, pausing to take a sip of tea.

Victoria's sudden appearance at his side spooked John. "What have I missed?"

Hushing her, he drew her down, making her huddle by his side to listen in as well.

"Father, Mycroft and I both have steady income. I am more than able to support me and mine."

"And it's only now you have a "mine" to come to at all! I thought you might become…strange…with that doctor fellow Mycroft told me lived here."

Madeline firmly responded, "John Watson moved out three years ago, sir. I do think you are misjudging a brother-like friendship, with all due respect."

The grey head in the hole whipped in her direction. "Well, it did give one cause for speculation. I am glad to be proven wrong. Although, in my day, women guarded their tongues closely, lest they lose them."

Victoria hissed in distaste, catching John's icy eyes glaring in fury. This unkind fellow was traducing all of them in some way, just in the course of afternoon tea.

"I prefer her honesty, Father. It is quite refreshing, compared to seeing a wife being bullied into submission," Sherlock stoutly said. A deadly silenced followed, with the elderly gentleman rising from his seat.

"I have made mistakes, son, I own that. But your mother had more choice than you realize. She went her own way, and any pretensions she made to being an obedient wife was an act she successfully pulled on you," Alastair spat. "You're too smart to have been fooled this long; you just defend her to protect yourself, your delusions about me."

"Perhaps, sir, perhaps."

The cane slammed against the ground. "Don't toy with me, boy! I know you better than you think!"

"You know me not at all!" Holmes screamed back, the chair he'd been sitting on scraping the floor as he stood. "You understand nothing, at least you understand nothing important! I wrote to you, begged you to come home and fix the matter and you let it lie. So be it, the past cannot be changed, but rest assured I will not let you affect my future, or my child's future."

_**'Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, this life …Trying to make ends meet…**_

After another period of interminable silence, the thump-step of Alastair met the duo upstairs' ears.

"I will ignore these harsh words and this guilt you foist upon me. At least inform me of the birth and the child's name when both come. Good day, Sherlock, Madeline."

_**You know I can't change, I can't change, I can't change, but I'm here in my mold, I am here in my mold and I'm a million different people from one day to the next…**_

More step-thumps, a creaking door, and Alastair Holmes was gone. And so was Sherlock Holmes' peace of mind. Victoria and John stared at each other, uncertain of what to do next. They rose together, strode over to the banister and watched as the dejected detective don a blank face, followed by his upset wife.

"Holmes, I-"

"I will never be him. I will never be him," Sherlock told his close friend, pausing to nod at the nanny before disappearing into the domicile. The wife pressed a hand against her growing belly, letting loose a heavy sigh.

"Heavy burden?" Victoria asked, venturing out of her place to make contact with the poor woman. Madeline snickered with no real humor.

"You've no idea, Miss Bayard."

Watson stepped forward, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"He may not have the father he wanted, but he always has us. That is what counts," he said, seeing her green eyes blinked in exhaustion.

"Yes, of course. We always have each other," she said, gesturing to the two people before her and the stewing sleuth in the room behind them. John and Victoria shared another glance; she had a point. They all could depend on one another.

_**I can't change my mold, no, no, no, no, no…**_

It would be a hard lesson to beat into Sherlock's head, but deep down he knew it was the truth as well.

* * *

**Author's note:** Oof, long week…and I have finals coming up soon, so next week's update will probably be late, for sure. Wow, that was contradictory, but anyway…see you guys soon, hopefully, enjoy this update, PLEASE REVIEW, and see ya later!


	11. A Moment Like This

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "A Moment Like This" by Kelly Clarkson (in bold).

* * *

June 22nd, 1894

Thankfully, it was soon after the "Father Incident" that the workers reported Cavendish Place fit for living again. Bidding his friends a fond farewell, the doctor grinned to himself when Madeline shook Victoria's hand firmly and pronouncing her companionship welcome in the house at any time. Sherlock mutely nodded, inclining an eyebrow at his compatriot but not deigning to ask any questions. John was more than grateful for that; he wanted no queries to be made of the sudden friendship between the women, especially since he valued Mrs. Holmes' approval of the girl in his employ. The extent of that approval's meaning residing solely in his mind at the moment. And so, the Watson men and the nanny resumed life in Cavendish Place, marking the end of the Week of Trials.

And that was not the only era coming to a hasty conclusion.

With Watson's year of mourning officially over, there had been an upsurge of eligible young ladies flocking to the doors of his office. One well-placed word from a father after his back treatment or an elderly aunt after receiving medication for her joint pain, and the next day one woman or another would appear at the door. They were all young, pretty, and eager to make the acquaintance of the doctor, especially one associated with the greatest detective on earth.

Frankly, though, the doctor himself did not care for courtship. Rather, he did not care for their courtship.

_**What if I told you it was all meant to be? Would you believe me, would you agree?**_

This plan was to be executed slowly, the intricacies to be delicately handled. The doctor was, after all, a military man, and he found he responded well to and generated positive results from a well-laid attack plan.

It was nothing much, at first. A passing glance here, a few token words there. He did not want to make his intended feel entrapped; rather, he preferred flashing meaningful looks in her direction. And it was not only a mind pursuit, after all. Something deep inside him was touched the first time he'd met her. A part of him that he'd thought died with Mary had been brought to life again, a Frankenstein's creature without the stitching and assembled parts of seven other men. It was just the renewal of himself. John was convinced that this was the right course of action; Mary's provided blessing at the cemetery last month confirmed it. She would not want him to live alone; she had chosen Victoria Bayard as her heir.

_**So tell me that you don't think I'm crazy when I tell you love has come here and now…**_

And what a fine, wonderfully spirited woman was that heir indeed, Watson mused privately on many different occasions. For over a month he'd begun to make his advances, working slowly at tearing down the walls erected around her heart and mind.

Victoria was, at heart, an independent woman. Showing her that he not only depended on her for her care of his son would be a hard thing indeed. Nor would it be simple to break down the societal norms surrounding them; more than once he'd caught the furtive glances of patients or Holmes, when he came to ask his professional opinion on a case, whenever he shared a moment of easy conversation with Miss Bayard. He cared too much to subject her to ridicule; indeed, he cared too much about himself in that department. Because of his writings, he was gaining more and more notoriety, and keeping a low profile was something he was adamant about maintaining.

_**Everything changes but beauty remains…something so tender, I can't explain…**_

He was first and foremost a gentleman.

"Why you persist in the ancient routine of courtship and marriage is beyond me," Holmes muttered to him on a walk over to a crime scene one day. John sighed; he knew that discretion and secrecy never lasted once Sherlock Holmes had his eye on something suspicious. "You, who had decided within days of meeting her to propose to your first fiancée! That's hardly gentlemanly; that's downright scandalous."

"Aye, I'll consider your sage advice, Holmes. You are, after all, an expert when it comes to the female persuasion," Watson retorted, earning a smirk for his efforts.

"I do admit, I had no…greater knowledge to the workings of the female mind for years, but see here, fellow, I am catching on."

"Indeed, twenty years after the fact, and only after one of them tied you down in marriage herself."

Sherlock bit down an instant denial. Rather, he focused on the crowds they were passing through, furtively taking note of suspicious characters.

"I do believe we were discussing your current predicament, my good man. All I am merely suggesting is perhaps a more direct approach would suffice in swaying her heart," he remarked, looking as though he were tasting something horribly sour. "Dear me, this conversation is entirely too menial."

"And yet you choose to participate in it, Holmes. Distracting yourself from matters at home, are you?"

The detective snorted. "Were I to take a direct approach myself regarding Mrs. Holmes' cravings at this point in the venture, I risk losing my…faculties."

He made a discreet gesture, causing Watson laugh uncontrollably.

"I see," the doctor sputtered, thumping his cane on the ground in good nature. Briskly, Sherlock snatched his arm.

"I am entirely serious, my dear Boswell. She threatened to take drastic action if I did not find her garlic and cinnamon at half-two this morning," he confessed, dodging a little old lady with a trundling cart. "Try being the one sneaking those items out of 'Nanny' Hudson's cupboards. I swear this baby is going to the death of us both."

Sobering up at the sight of his friend's agape face, the doctor reassured him everything would be alright in the end. They arrived at the scene, the conversation abandoned, but a seed had been planted in Watson's mind. A direct approach? Perhaps a woman of the world such as Victoria would not mind so much if that course was taken.

When he knocked off work at seven o'clock the evening of June 22nd, John locked up his office, his hands shaking slightly as he rolled the idea through his head again.

"Perhaps," he murmured out loud. It wasn't a terrible idea; after all, actions did indeed speak louder than words sometimes. And words and looks were all he'd exchanged with the pretty nanny. She'd lived through more danger and more excitement than any average woman he'd known. The whole walk home he contemplated his next move, the next attack formation.

What he didn't expect was a surprise assault at his own front door. What he wasn't prepared for was Victoria's battle plan. He could see her, waiting on the front steps, wringing her hands in an almost nervous fashion. Her neat black hair was slipping from beneath the pristine cap constantly perched on her head. As he got closer, he noted that her sweet black eyes were latched onto him, reflecting an unnamed emotion that was causing the rest of her body to tremble.

Making his way swiftly to her, he asked, "Miss Bayard, has something happened to William?"

She shook her head. "No, sir. Willy is fine. Superb, actually."

John frowned. "Did someone try to attack you again?"

Once more her head shook no, her gaze unable to meet his.

"Whatever is the matter?"

"The matter?" her voice flared up suddenly. "You know perfectly well what the matter is. What I want to know is, what on earth do you intend to do about it?"

Damn, he was caught. Perhaps denial was a better match for him. "I have no-"

"D'you think I'm blind, John?" she hissed in a whisper. "Or stupid? Because as you have indicated to me in the past, you have a basic knowledge of my intelligence. I do have eyes, y'know."

She stepped back, trying to keep herself out of his reach. She only succeeded in flattening herself against the door. Her face was flushing, a startling red accenting her cheeks.

"I have…so many conflicting ideas and feelings in my head and body, and they were put there by you," Victoria murmured. "I know not what to do with myself anymore. When I speak with you, I feel like you actually hear me. When I see you, my heart drops and lifts at the same time. I can't sleep without seeing you in my dreams. I wait for the moment you come home from work, if just to see you once that day. And you…you have been so sweet, and courteous, and…what do you want from me?"

_**Well, I may be dreaming but till I awake…Can't we make this dream last forever?**_

Her finger was pointed in John's face, which looked utterly surprised, and not just a little bit pleased. If there had ever been an appropriate time for Heaven to open up and cast its light upon Watson, this was it. Victoria continued speaking over his inner delight.

"I will be no dalliance in a gentleman's home. I may have had an occupation where the women were reputed to be whores, but I will not be one. What do you want from me, John Watson? For if that is what you intend, sir, then my conception of you has been sorely incorrect and I will leave immediately."

With two quick strides, he put himself merely inches away from her, his bearing proud and his stance as straight as it could be with his injured leg.

"What I want, Victoria, is you. Just you, with all the respect that you yourself accord," he replied, his voice growing husky. "I have not loved anyone since my wife passed…but you…"

He paused, his head inclining on its accord. Her eyelids fluttered, and another blush crawled up her neck.

"Not as a dalliance?" she asked him, her gaze riveted to his lips.

"Never," he responded. "I just want you to grant me a place in your affections."

Victoria smirked, finding herself leaning towards the doctor. "You know you're using sweet phrases once bandied by King Henry the Eighth to Anne Boleyn?"

Watson chuckled. "I have no intention of cutting off your head. Does that mean you will not attend to the words because someone else used them first?"

Any closer and she would be kissing John. "Not at all."

That was all the invitation he needed; in a moment his mouth was on hers, drawing her up and into a gentle kiss. As he began to draw away, her hand snaked behind his head and pulled him back for more. They were falling, deeper, deeper…

_**A moment like this…some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this…some people search forever for that one special kiss…Oh, I can't believe it's happening to me…**_

"Well, well, well, what a fine scene is this."

Both the nanny and the doctor were jarred by the new voice entering their hearing. Immediately they sprang apart, black and blue eyes jumping everywhere. Turning swiftly on his heel, he was at once irritated and shocked to find Madeline Holmes standing at the base of the front stairs. She was dressed nicely, as if she were to be receiving visitors. One hand rested comfortably on her ever-growing belly, the other pressed into her back. But upon her sweet freckled face was the largest, smuggest smile John had ever seen this side of Baker Street.

"Here I came for a treatment for back pain, and instead I find this," she murmured happily, cocking her head to the side. "Good evening, doctor, Miss Bayard."

"Evening," they chimed together. After fumbling in speech for a minute, Victoria expressed her need to check on William. John bade her go, and closed the door behind her as she darted inside the house.

"It's not what you think," he began lamely, desperate to quell the grow satisfaction in Madeline's eyes. "It was just…we were just…"

"Snogging on the front porch, Watson. Don't pretend as though it's never happened in your life before," the lady said, folding her hands together. "And certainly don't think you were the only pair ever to do so."

His forehead creased in apprehension. "My intentions towards her are strictly honorable."

"Indeed, I wouldn't expect any less from you, John. I must say, though, it has taken you long enough to get the nerve, don't you think so?"

He huffed indignantly. "Did everyone know what I intended, honestly?"

She shrugged. "If I were to hazard a guess, I would say that the only people who didn't realize you both were taking so long to get to this point were the two of you."

"This coming from the wife of the man who'd remained single for over twenty years, and then it took him another two to realize he even cared for you in the first place?" John snapped. He really was not in the mood for her speculation. And Madeline was hardly even fazed by his sharp words. She was well aware of the situation her mouth had put her in, and as a true fencer she conceded the point.

"Well played, sir. Shall I call sometime tomorrow, then? This back pain, it comes and goes, and it's starting to go now," she told him, backing away from the stairs slowly. John heaved a giant sigh; at least it wasn't Holmes who'd caught them… "You do realize I intend to tell Sherlock everything, yes?"

"WHAT? No!" The doctor frantically shook his head in denial, but his sight was only greeted by that of Madeline climbing into a then-unnoticed hansom cab, blowing him a kiss and bidding the drive to beat a hasty retreat.

_**Some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this…**_

"This will be public knowledge within three days, won't it?" Victoria said, reappearing at John's side and watching the cab disappear down the street. Curling an arm around her waist, Watson simply rested his head against hers and groaned.

"I would say, more like three hours."

* * *

**Author's note:** HOLY FINALS WEEK, BATMAN! If you were wondering whether I was dead or not, I'm not. Finals have just completely owned my life the past couple of weeks. But now I'm on break, and can get back to fanfiction. Which means, I can get back to updating! I'm taking a J-term class, but it's one class, so I can keep plugging away on here.

Yep, that just happened. Anyway, hope you enjoy the new chapter, see ya next time, PLEASE REVIEW!


	12. Vulnerable

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Vulnerable" by Secondhand Serenade (in bold).

* * *

September 13th, 1894: 10:12 PM

From their illicit kiss in the doorway of Cavendish Place, things could only progress for John and Victoria. From Madeline's point of view, their courtship was sweet, entirely lovely. To be sure, it was nothing like hers and Sherlock's rise, but then again, John was an altogether different breed of man. He actually courted the woman, rather than going the complicated friendship-turned-romantic tryst route.

Sherlock merely commented, good-naturedly, that with the doctor ensnared by yet another female it would only stand to reason that the practice would suffer. John cuffed him upside the head when he heard that, but the remark was otherwise let go.

It began with walks around the city, often with little William acting as their chaperone. More than once they were passed on the street, and someone would comment on the adorable boy and the fine family they were together. At first Victoria blushed and guffawed at such phrases, but as time wore on, she and John would look at each other, smile, and nod in agreement. They were becoming their own unit, the dear boy bonding them together. But out in the world, walking arm in arm was the extent of their affection, albeit with a few hidden kisses here and there.

They were discreet about the house, and in public, and especially in front of William. For being three years old, the boy had a great amount of intelligence, and so Victoria suggested not letting him know about his father's intentions. Watson agreed, but in his mind knew that, with the intended direction he wanted to take with this relationship, it would be wiser to reveal the truth sooner than later.

For all of July, they were contented in each other's company. Victoria, never knowing such tenderness could come from a military man, basked in the warm glow his icy eyes would cast upon her. Quietly, subtly, he grew bolder with his attentions, even taking her to plays and dinner. Thanks to her assembled costume trousseau, she went out in elegance, her understated style belying the true ladyship within.

However, sweetness was not all they had with each other. Beneath all the charm, the grace, there lay a deeper passion, one that neither was bold enough to encourage but both knew was there. A fire was ignited within John whenever she walked by, her scent of soap and rosewater burning his soul. And he was not the only one being scorched; Victoria, having been pursued by men before, was not used to this nobility that the good doctor was engaging. Treating her like a lady, nearly like a princess, endeared him to her, set her heart aflame.

_**Share with me the secrets that you kept in because it's cold inside…cold inside, it's cold inside…**_

Near the end of August, John began to notice her agitation, the feeling of nervousness she had been hiding quite well. She had a habit at glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, and suddenly her dark irises would flush in a sort of disappointment. She looked as though she felt out of place. Watson understood, from his marriage with Mary, that when a woman began to feel that way, everything she did and everything she was a part of could suffer. Victoria became a little more distant after flashing her glance at him that way, slightly more reserved. She was reverting to her chilly demeanor that she'd adopted at the beginning of her employment around the house, when they were being watched. The doctor, chafing under the pressure, knew a confrontation would be in store. And one evening, when the housekeeper and William were both in bed, John guided Victoria into his study, locking the door behind him. Nestling into an armchair before the fireplace, he motioned for her to come over. Boldly, she decided to sit at his feet, almost like a child ready to hear a good story.

_**And I know you may be scared, and I know we're unprepared, but I don't care…**_

She did not enjoy confrontation, but he wasn't about to have her walk out in the middle of it in a rage. But before he could say a word, she cut him off.

"_Tell me about Mary."_

_John sat bolt upright in his chair, utterly taken aback. In all their time, he'd not mentioned his deceased wife's name. Certainly, there were times in conversation when he'd reference her, but…_

"_I know she meant a great deal to you, that you loved her. I…I want to know what she was like," Victoria explained, not looking him in the eye. John raised an eyebrow._

"_For a basis of comparison?" he asked suspiciously. Her gaze flew up to meet his, hardened by the statement._

"_You never speak of her, not really. I want to know about her. Tell me," she said, not backing down. Watson closed his eyes; it felt like the peeling of bandages off a fresh wound. It pulled at his heartstrings to speak of Mary, but he would meet Victoria's request._

"_She was…beautiful. Red hair, sweet face freckled by the sun, lovely grey eyes. Mary was…well, a governess when I met her. She was a client of Holmes' when we first met, and I knew from the moment I met her that I would marry her. She had a kind soul, but she was strikingly intelligent, and sweet. Not that she didn't have a vicious streak in her, goodness no. She could ring a peal over my head when she was disgusted or offended, and she threw wine in Sherlock's face when he insulted her the first time they officially met for dinner. He never met with her in person on that case, but had received letters about details and such, you see," he murmured slowly, delving headlong into the memories. He suppressed the urge to tear up; he refused to cry again over the matter, and would never do so in front of Victoria. He never wanted to appear weak. "She…bailed me out of jail. More than once. Not because of anything I'd done, but because of my association with Holmes and his unusual methods. She was there for me, when I was torn up in hospital. Mary…knew that she was competing against my blood brother, but accepted it."_

_Risking a glance downward, he saw the nanny's face becoming increasingly lined with sadness._

"_I loved her. I married her. Had a son with her. We intended to have more children, but…it wasn't meant to be."_

_Hesitantly, Victoria's thin voice came through the haze. "How…how did she die? What did she die from?"_

_The deepest cut of all was just rubbed raw with salt. "From consumption. It was a miracle that William, being so young, did not get the contagion as well. I tried my best to save her, but-"_

"_But there was nothing you could do," she finished for him. Gently she took his hands in hers and kissed his rough fingers. There they sat in complete silence, both their hearts weighed down by the sorrow. John could not look away from this dark beauty sitting before him. She was no Mary, but she was incredibly good to him, allowing him to grieve before her and to stay with him. Leaning forward to kiss her forehead, he was surprised when she turned away._

_Rising off the floor, she stepped away, shaking her head in denial._

"_Why?" he wondered, pivoting in his chair to face her. The tears began to drip from her eyes, but she stood her ground._

"_John," she started, her voice strong in spite of the tears, "I needed to know about her…to know who I was replacing. And now that I know…how can I ever possibly replace her? Mary was good, respectable…she was your Mary. I just…John, I just cannot be your next Mary. I'm not her, at all. I'm not like her at all. So I have to wonder: do you really want me, or do you want someone to take her place?"_

"_You're not her replacement!" John objected, trying to stand swiftly. His damaged leg caused him to stumble, but he caught himself at the last moment._

"_I need proof. I need proof that you care about me…for who I am. Not for being a woman who happened to be around after Mary's death, but for being the woman I am."_

_Her piece said, she turned her back on him, unlocked the door, and walked out of the room. The door slammed shut behind her, and a new pain erupted in John. This time, it wasn't his leg, but his heart was being twisted._

_**Tell me, tell me what makes you think that you are invincible…please don't tell me that I am the only one that's vulnerable …impossible…**_

Here he was, two weeks later, the damage still not repaired in his heart. It had long since grown dark, but he was still laboring at his office, sorting through patient files to avoid going home. It was a menial task, one that could've been saved, but it was almost mindless, and he needed something to busy his hands while he thought.

It was true, he realized, that she was the next woman he loved after Mary. But that wasn't to say he didn't love Victoria for who she was. She was not, in any way, a way to fill the part of himself that belonged to Mary. How could he tell her that she was chosen, seemingly, by Mary? That she was approved of by his first love? How could he show her that he loved Victoria for her stubbornness, her drive, her strong will and defining loyalty and courage? How he could express that in words, and have it make an impact?

Idly he scratched his injured leg, bemoaning the bandages he placed there habitually. As he continued to relieve his itch, Watson's mind began to race furiously. He was struck with an idea, a way to prove his affection was not groundless. The walk outside the building and back home was a blur, and later on John would marvel at his own litheness and speed. Still, driven by his purpose, he tramped back into Cavendish Place, pausing only in his pursuit to ensure that William was safe and in bed. Tucking his son in, he stiffened his spine and prepared himself mentally for what he was about to do.

Tiptoeing back down the stairs, he proceeded cautiously towards Victoria's bedroom at the back of the house. Having not spoken to her beyond exchanging pleasantries and reports on William's behavior, he was more than a little nervous about sitting her down and talking again. With that compounding his mission, he adopted his military nerve and tapped on the wooden portal. In an instant the door flew open, revealing Victoria in a state of undress. Her blouse had been removed, reveal the corset and chemise reside beneath, but her skirt was still secure around her waist. Her dark hair was loosened, extending the length of her back. Her arms, he noticed, were slim, as well as her neck, with a scar running along her clavicle. Catching himself ogling her, he stepped back and coughed.

"Perhaps…perhaps this is not the best time," he managed to get out. Victoria shrugged, leaning against the doorframe.

"On the contrary, I find your timing impeccable, doctor," she replied impertinently. It was not the first time she had been slightly undressed before a man. Tight spaces and close acting quarters made one lose their shame eventually. She for one was glad to have found a suitable weapon against the doctor, and wasn't about to let it go. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Doctor Watson?"

Swallowing hard, John merely whispered, "May I come in, please? We have much to speak of, and I would rather do so in private."

Wordlessly, she gestured him into her small room. The bed took up the majority of the space, with one other door leading to the bath. A trunk lay at the foot of the bed, propped open and clothes arranged neatly inside. Letters littered her dresser, and a single lamp lit the space. Pressing himself into a corner of the room, John watched as she closed the door, entrapping them both.

"Say your piece, sir," she quipped promptly, settling against the wooden panels. She said no more as he stepped forward, opened his mouth, and faltered. Inwardly she cringed at his bright discomfort, but she kept it to herself. Finally, he sat on the edge of her bed, laying his cane aside.

"Two weeks ago, you asked for proof that I care for you as yourself. Honestly, I couldn't think of anything up until this day, not from lack of trying, I might add. And then, it hit me: you want me to prove I care for your character, your fortitude. I came to this solution."

Pulling the blade hidden in his cane deftly out, he gritted his teeth for a moment before slitting his trouser leg. Victoria's eyes widened at the sight; he'd just destroyed a suit, for the sake of revealing his bandages underneath.

"You told me once that you cared for own brother's injured leg after he came home from battle. From what I understand, he has fully healed now?" the doctor asked, dropping the blade to the floor and methodically loosening the bandages.

"Yes, John," she responded, unable to tear her gaze away from his flying fingers.

"Well, what I am about to show you is a twice treated, badly healed one. Combat is not a pretty thing, and taking damage from it is far worse. And the same can be said of pursuing one's desires, in caring for another person. Damage is taken if one partner falls, or leaves the other behind," Watson confessed, slowing in his ministrations greatly. One layer of bandages lay between his leg and open air. One layer lay between his cover and her scrutiny. "Let me show you the damages left behind."

Just like that, he peeled off the final layer, the hidden contents coming to light. Being one who'd seen her own brother's injuries, and a good friend set upon by a mob until they drew blood, Victoria still gasped in shock. His leg was a bloody mess, she thought crudely. Taking his now outstretched hand, she was pulled closer to see the wreck it was in more detail. The skin was flayed in some areas, in others there were deep gouges taken out. His knee was mottled with scar tissue, evidence of stitching dotting the entire limb.

"I was performing a sweep with the other men in my battalion. The enemy was waiting for us, though, and ignited some explosives underneath us. Over half the men died just in that attack. Somehow I managed to get up and fire a few volleys with my gun before collapsing. Hours later, I woke up in the hospital tent, the doctors wrenching shrapnel out of my leg. They said, within my hearing, that it was a miracle I was even alive. The evidence was that I must've been standing near one of the explosives for only this leg to have taken the damage. I was in and out of consciousness for the next two weeks, only vaguely aware of what they were doing to my body. Morphine was the only thing that made me forget about the horrifying reality," Watson relayed the memory, his leg's distorted muscles twitching as Victoria let go of his hand and brushed along the ridges with her fingers. Her fascination was a dark one, and he let her touch.

_**And your slowly shaking finger tips show that your scared like me…and I know you may be scared, and I know were unprepared, but I don't care.**_

Knowing that some part of her was still listening, he continued, "Having just left medical school for the army, I decided to stop wallowing in self-pity and drugs and remove the last of the shrapnel myself. I took it all out and stitched myself up. The other doctors were shocked to find me the next day putting in the last few stitches. The muscles and tendons were ravaged, the bones obviously broken, but I was still alive. After six months of working towards recovery, they shipped me home to London, and I've managed to get by, to survive. I was beyond proper care and now I have to handle the repercussions of that bloody day."

Removing her hand from the scars, he clasped it tight. Reaching under her chin, he lifted her face up so he could look her in the eye once more.

_**Slow down, girl, you're not going anywhere , just wait around and see…maybe I am much more…you never know what lies ahead…**_

"I'm telling you all of this-no, I'm showing you this-as a comparison. Think of my leg as relative to the damage left behind by Mary's death. I've had no one to really turn to, to nurture my wounds. I thought it would always be sorrowful. I believed that for the rest of my life I was going to just get by, survive, and live with the repercussions. I thought I would have to treat myself for the heartache and the pain, and never enjoy full health again," he whispered, pausing for just a moment to catch a breath, "but then you came into my life. It is your temper and your lively attitude, your backbone and your loving demeanor that has been curing me of heartache. You've done so since we first met. I ask you, do not abandon me in my recovery. I want to live…live with you as part of my life."

_**I promise I can be anyone, I can be anything …just because you were hurt doesn't mean you shouldn't bleed…**_

Letting her go and picking up the pieces of his cane, he sheathed the blade again and stared straight ahead at the wall. She hadn't said a word, but let the quiet of the house wash over them. Thinking that perhaps he was too late, John tightened his shoulders and went to stand, only to be held down by Victoria's firm grip.

_**I can see it in your eyes that you're so sure…please don't tell me that I am the only one that's vulnerable…impossible…  
**_

"I have the proof I needed," she said, leaning into him and capturing his mouth in a deep kiss. Relieved, John's heart swelled and his breath gave out as he responded to her attentions. It was not to last, though.

**CRASH! THUMP!**

"WATSON!"

Both partners groaned aloud. Leave it to Holmes to have just perfect timing. There was no time to dwell on the fact, though, as his voice was laced with urgency. Thinking it was just another case Holmes wanted him to assist on, John made his way out into the hall just to tell him to sod off for one night. However, the desperate way Sherlock's eyes rattled in his head dispelled his thoughts.

"Holmes? What's going on?"

The detective beckoned him to the door. "Fetch your bag, doctor. Come with me at once!"

Striding forward and clutching his shoulders, John held him in place. "Is somebody injured?"

A strained smirk met his eye. "No. Madeline is in labor, John. She's having the baby now."

* * *

**Author's note:** Now that I've got the time, I'm actually updating within a week. Hope you all had a merry Christmas, or happy holidays if you don't celebrate Christmas. Mine was great, got the Iron Man 2 dvd for the holiday…can never have enough of Robert Downey, Jr. I must say.

Yeah, she's having the baby! Woot woot! And yay, issues are resolved in the Watson household. Hope you enjoyed this chapter (it leads into the next one, by the way), PLEASE REVIEW, and I'll see you for the birth of the Holmes baby!


	13. Teach Your Children

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Teach Your Children" by Crosby, Stills, Nash, Young (in bold).

* * *

September 14th, 1894: 3:42 AM

Sherlock Holmes paced the floor in Watson's old rooms, furiously concentrating on the facts. It was all he could do to block out the shrieks coming from his own bedroom, where the doctor himself was coaching his pregnant wife on. He had been ejected from the room about an hour ago for being no help except acting as a receptacle for Mrs. Holmes' agony-fueled cries of resentment towards him. That, and he was immobile as a block of wood and as feeling as a cold fish. John must have thought it only right to separate the spouses for the time being, and he sent for a nurse from the hospital for assistance.

For nine months, his wife Madeline had been the vessel for their child. She'd vomited, cried irrationally, craved ridiculous combinations of food, and gone in for new dress fittings seven times to accommodate her growing belly. For over two hundred days, they'd spent time rearranging the house for the coming baby. A cradle was brought in, as well as a bassinet, and Madeline's dear friends had sent her a few things here and there. For well over a thousand hours, he'd spent pondering cases in that time, but more often than not he'd turned his thoughts to fatherhood. Just a few hours ago, she'd complained of discomfort, which was not uncommon, but then as she rose from the bed to relieve her aches, a sickening splash of water was heard and her face blanched. Madeline was going to go into labor right then; they were going to be parents in (with any luck) less than twenty-four hours.

And now, with the moment here, he truly wondered if he was ready for such an undertaking.

Given his tumultuous upbringing, Holmes wasn't altogether confident in his parental skills. Hand him a puzzle, he could solve it in minutes. Present him with a tough murder case, he could tell you who'd done it with what weapon within hours or days. But providing emotional and physical care for a tiny being that was partly your flesh and blood? He was completely lost. And the only man he could truly solicit advice from was in the other room, tending to the crying woman. And he certainly could not call on his own father for questioning.

_**You who are on the road must have a code that you can live by, and so become yourself, because the past is just a good bye…**_

Alastair was not a fantastic fathering model for him. Perhaps in his early childhood he'd been caring, but as he grew older, Sherlock found his father to be distant, argumentative, and indulgent in his vices. Not once could he remember his father ever telling him that he…loved him, or even found him tolerable. Certainly his mother was no saint, either, but she at least did not walk out on her spouse or remaining child. The fact that Isabel Holmes had brought her lover in to live with them after the divorce was neither here nor there. The point was that she had stayed, whereas Alastair disappeared. She suffered greatly within the marriage; after all, once she provided her husband with his sons, what use was there for her at all? The marriage was an arranged one, like so many others, and so they lived virtually separate lives. The youngest Holmes child had only hoped his father could still care for him despite pulling away from matrimonial bonds. In the end, all the old man could do for his boy was save money for him to attend boarding school and Cambridge when the time for both came.

For nearly all his life, Sherlock had nothing to do with the man who sired him. Was it a family trait, or just an accident of nature? Holmes had never been much of a caring man; he had no doubt his raising was the reasoning behind that. But in the course of three years, he was changing his viewpoint on feelings entirely. One woman did that, worked within and against his past to prove that he could actually trust the emotional. And he knew this child of theirs would be a further testing of his mettle. Could he really meet that challenge, though?

A clearing throat behind him indicated he was, suddenly, not alone. Pivoting fast on his heel, he raised an eyebrow upon seeing Miss Bayard standing before him. Victoria had changed into a lightweight dress since last he saw her (in a corset and skirt only, he'd noted amusedly; Watson was fully progressing on that front, finally), and for once carried herself more as a woman and less as a servant. It was interesting to see the change in her.

"Should you not be at Cavendish Place with your charge, madam? I rather think that is hardly an appropriate place to be at the moment," he asked her, wanting to skip the pleasantries. Her black eyes flashed at his bluntness.

"William is downstairs, sleeping in the lounge. He is quite fine, Mr. Holmes."

"Ah, but that still leaves the question of why you are here, rather than at the doctor's home. After all, the nurse that was sent for is already here," the detective said, his fingers tapping against each other in exasperation as they were clasped behind his back. It was then he noticed that her entire demeanor changed: eyes concentrated on his forehead than his own eyeline, back went ramrod straight, her stance became entirely defensive. "What have you done, Miss Bayard?"

Clearing her throat, Victoria opened her mouth, the words coming hesitantly off her tongue. "As you know, sir, Mrs. Holmes and I have grown to be…well, close, in these past few months. I consider her something like a friend. I…I want to be here for her, now that she is going through the pains of childbirth."

A loud scream cracked their eardrums, and Holmes winced visibly at the sound.

"I would be remiss, Miss Bayard, if I did not confess I do not entirely believe you. For you see, though I seem to be paying no attention to anything but the excruciating pain of my wife and my own musings, I hear the heavy tread of male footsteps at the base of the stairs. Logically I have to conclude that you have either let strangers into the house after you, or you have brought my brother and my father," Sherlock announced carefully, striding away from her. "What, pray tell, was going through your mind to possess you to do so? Mycroft is allowed, absolutely, but my father-"

"Sherlock, Madeline asked me to bring him here. She wants…she wants him here as well. And you and I have both learned not to deny a pregnant lady anything, as the results could be disastrous," Victoria cut him off, mildly surprising him with the drop of titles. "It's too obvious that you and your father have bad blood between you, but your wife is hoping that with your child and his grandchild being brought into the world, you could find a way to…if not forget, then move on."

Holmes merely grunted, and did not look back at her. She was not fooled by his ignorant appearance; the sleuth had heard all that she said and implied, and she knew it well. Without waiting for a reply, she clattered down the stairs, pausing on the steps only a moment to cast a lingering gaze on the door to the Holmes' flat. This, also, was not unnoticed by the detective; it seemed her concern and depth of feeling for the good doctor ran deeper than even she knew. Soon enough, though, Miss Bayard was down the stairs and back again, guiding the two eldest Holmes men to join in the family occasion. Mycroft greeted his brother with insincere joviality; given that their father was glaring at both them and the panting screams coming through the walls, it was hard for one not truly connected with the birth to not be agitated.

Turning his attention to Alastair, Sherlock gave him a curt nod of greeting. "Father."

It was returned in kind. "Son."

The briefest moment of quiet passed, where not even Madeline was making any noise. It lasted for just a second, but in that time, the Holmes men had shared looks of detached interest with one another.

"It's been a long time since the three of us have been together," Alastair remarked, an air of nostalgia lacing his tone. Mycroft concurred, his glance sweeping to his brother for the words they all knew were coming.

"Would that it were the four of us," he muttered, his body drooping almost sadly. "Mum, I think, would've been a good comfort to Madeline. I certainly cannot help her."

Alastair, rather than flare up at the mention of his long-dead wife, shook his head in agreement. "Isabel was a kind woman, I won't deny it."

"What…what can I do?" Sherlock suddenly spouted, staring at the partition separating him from his wife. "I've never been one to require assistance with questions, because I generally already know the answers. I've read about the gestation period, how one should care for the mother and child, but…I feel as if…"

"As if you really don't have a clue?" Mycroft supplied humorously, seating himself on the arm of the single chair in the room. The youngest Holmes half-sneered at him for his cheeky remark, but in his eyes he could see the acknowledged truth. Relying heavily on his cane, Alastair closed the gap between him and Sherlock, laying a somewhat comforting hand on his boy's shoulder.

"No father knows how to handle the birth of his first child. Take Mycroft for example; I was terrified of even touching the lad for fear of hurting him somehow," the old man said, gesturing towards his eldest son. "But, in some way, I learned how to go on, how to tread around you boys. Then again, neither of you really depended on anyone to get along. You both were very self-reliant."

"But not at first. It is quite hard to care for oneself when one resides in the nursery," Mycroft said, earning two Holmes smirks for his efforts. In that moment, it surprised even him how much Sherlock resembled their father.

_**Teach your children well…their father's hell did slowly go by,**__** and feed them on your dreams, the one they picked, the one you'll know by…**_

"Indeed. You can study all you want, Sherlock, but experience is going to be your teacher on this one. And from what I understand, experience has been an excellent tutor for you. At least, if those scrawls in the papers are anything to go by."

Sherlock snorted. "You read Watson's deplorable writings?"

"How else am I to get news or stories about my second son's life, since he will not speak to me?" laughed Alastair bitterly. "I hear more from Mycroft, and he's working with the government now!"

The two men shrugged at their father, digesting the comments and wincing at the continued yells from Madeline. If only there was a drug safe enough to use on her for the pain!

The nurse hired by Doctor Watson came bolting out into the hallway, calling for the sleuth. Beckoning her inward, Sherlock asked her what was wrong, pushing his swelling fear out of his chest as best he could.

"Your wife wants you, sir. I told her that it was not sanitary, but she will not listen. She keeps crying for you, Mr. Holmes," she confessed, sympathetically gazing at the door. "Will you go to her?"

Taken aback by this, he could only clear his throat and nod.

"You know, your mother wanted me there just minutes before both Mycroft and you were born. I suggest you get in there quick, my lad," Alastair murmured softly, using his cane to push his boy forward. Stumbling for a moment, Sherlock straightened himself out and gripped the door handle.

_**So just look at them and sigh and know they love you.**_

"Here I go…"

**xXxXxXx**

Sharp, deep pain erupted in Madeline's body, the time span between the bursts growing shorter and shorter. For hours now, she'd been on the rack, cursing her innocence in being a first-time mother and cursing her own husband for making her become this fat, bloated, walking baby bassinet. She'd gone on the last nine months in a sort of ignorance, hearing the horror stories of childbirth and yet not truly paying attention to them. It was no game, and she'd known that from the beginning, but this was the real moment. John was a dear through it all, ushering Holmes out and encouraging her on. The woman could not have asked for a better doctor, and thank God he was a good friend as well; having a strange man looking at her was enough to make her stomach turn were it not already occupied. She'd thought she'd felt worse when she'd been run over by the carriage three years ago; at least then she didn't feel like her body was being turned inside out.

Her husband was responsible, though, for her recovery in that area. He'd been so good to her, even when she was a stranger bleeding to death in his flat. Beneath the thorny exterior, he really was a good man. Despite his dangerous work, he was a fair provider. And at this moment, she knew three things: she loved him, she was having their baby, and it was horrifyingly destructive to her insides.

"John…John," she croaked; all the screaming was leaving her hoarse. Her doctor looked up, blue eyes wide at the first calmness she'd had in her voice in hours. "How…how much longer?"

"Not much at all. You're very far along for only four hours' labor. I anticipate you pushing in a matter of minutes, actually."

She swallowed, loosening one of her fists to swipe at the sweat on her face. "Bring Sherlock back, then."

"What? He, he can't be in here. He-"

"John, I need him," she cried, more tears crawling down her cheeks. "Bring him back, please. I need him."

Nodding, Watson signaled for the nurse who was hovering by her side to go, and only moments later her husband stood in the doorway. He surveyed the scene coolly, taking note of everything that had been moved, touched, or crushed in his absence before going to his wife's side.

_**Can't you see we must be free to teach your children what you believe in, make a world that we can live in?**_

"How far along is she, doctor?" he asked mechanically, his cold hand gripping her burning one tightly. As his hand shook slightly, she knew beneath the veneer of detachment there was nervousness about her condition.

"It's time, Sherlock," John said, readying himself at the end of the bed. Birth was a bloody business, and given how fast she was going in her labor, a home birth was even bloodier. There was just no time to waste at all. Madeline began shaking her head, intense dread filling her bright eyes.

"No, no, no, you said 'soon' before. When does soon translate to 'right this minute'?" she squawked, hauling herself into a half-sitting position. With a harried glance thrown at him by John, Sherlock understood that he may have to restrain his wife in case her hysteria heightened. "We-I'm-he's-we're not-"

"It's happening now whether you like it or not, Mrs. Holmes," John replied seriously. A pillow was launched in his direction, and he had to duck quickly to avoid it.

"Bollocks! This is my body, I'll hold this back as long as I have to!"

"Darling, you're being irrational," Holmes cut in, slipping an arm tightly around her shoulders in a both comforting and restricting way.

"I'm not a mother! I'm not good enough to be a mother!" Madeline sobbed, her face contorting in sorrow and pain, before feeling something turn inside. "I…oh. I think…oh, dear."

John, taking his cue from her facial expression, sprang up. "Right, Madeline, when I tell you to push, you push with all your might, you understand me?"

Terrified out of her mind, she could only shake her head to indicate that she'd listened to him. Over and over he commanded her to push, Sherlock not moving away from her at all during the time. Alternately he'd hold her hand or squeeze her shoulders, not saying a word but just watching her and holding on.

And then…there was the tiniest cry coming from John's direction. In his hands, underneath what Sherlock would later term as "blood and bile", was a baby boy.

"Another Holmes boy in the world," Watson chuckled, handing off the wailing infant to the nurse to be cleaned up. When he looked back at his comrade, he saw the detective's dark eyes pooling with unshed tears.

"A son," he whispered, looking down at his weary wife. In the first time since he'd known the man, John could swear he saw absolute love in Sherlock's eyes. "You did it, darling."

She laughed, exhausted by the efforts, basking in the glow of relief. Until another dark rip tore through her. "Dear God!"

She sat bolt upright, the familiar grips of anguish flushing through her. John's eyebrows nearly flew off his head and his mouth dropped open.

"What is it? WATSON! What's happening?" Sherlock wondered frantically, lurching forward only to be held back by his wife's strong hold on his arm.

"Step back, Holmes, unless you want to birth the next one yourself," Watson grunted. "Push again, Maddy!"

The sleuth sank back down in complete shock, jaw dropped unbecomingly throughout the next bout of pushing. Twins…she was having twins! Soon enough, another set of cries came from the end of the bed, and John held up their second child.

"A girl this time, my friends," he announced, taking her to clean her off himself. To calm her already frayed nerves, John joked, "Please tell me if you have any more babies stored up, madam."

_**Teach your parents well…their children's hell will slowly go by…**_

Madeline's tear-laced giggles echoed in the room around them, and her green eyes were attached to the sight of her children. It was better than looking to her left and seeing the positive blankness of her husband's face. The nurse finally came up to her, and put the bundle that was her boy in her arms. Watson came back with their girl quickly, and guided Holmes' hands so he would hold her correctly. Then and only then did Madeline look at Sherlock. He'd finally shut his mouth, but his eyes were still wide and staring at his daughter. Slowly, carefully, his lips curled into a small grin.

"My dear, you are a never-ending maze of surprises," he murmured quietly, looking at both of their children before gazing at her. "All along you had another one hidden in there, another turn to take on the path. You, my dear Maddy, are always interesting."

She breathed a sigh of relief. With an air of absolute seriousness, he bent forward and kissed her on the lips, drawing back when their son began to fuss.

"I love you."

Now it was her turn for her jaw to drop. "What?"

He rolled his eyes at her scoffing. "It's not like you didn't know. How could I marry a woman, let alone have legitimate children with her, if I did not?"

"It's not like you've ever said it before," she countered, patting the little boy to quiet him down. Holding onto their daughter firmly with one hand, Sherlock freed his other hand up to stroke her damp hair. His gaze flicked over her face. In the dead of night, after hours of labor, she was still beautiful to him.

_**So just look at them and sigh and know they love you.**_

"Perhaps there's a need for me to be more sentimental then," he replied, his thumb stroking her cheek.

Madeline smiled up at him then. "You have two more reasons to do so now."

* * *

**Author's note:** Yes, it's true. She had twins. And trust me, I spent a looooong time debating whether or not she should. But yay, the babies are born! It's so cool to make Madeline and Sherlock parents; I've been waiting on it for awhile.

I know I was a little late again, but in my defense I had to drive people to the airport really early in the morning and have a J-term class. But at least I have the chapter out now! Please enjoy, and REVIEW, and just wait, there's more to come still!


	14. Don't Get Me Wrong

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Don't Get Me Wrong" by The Pretenders (in bold).

* * *

September 25th, 1894

The naming of the twins was something the Holmes' were not entirely prepared for. Certainly they had ideas of names for the children, but they had not fully committed to anything. Lists were pinned to the wall of what they didn't want (John noted, with amusement, that Irene was the first name scratched off the girls' list), with a few circled, but nothing really stuck.

Thankfully, it didn't take long for Madeline and Sherlock to figure out the labels they would put on their offspring.

"_Who is this dashing young lad?" Watson asked when he came to check up on the mother the day after the birth. Madeline was doing well, for the most part, other than being weak and exhausted. Content with her vitals, he went over to check on the boy first. The child's eyes retained the dark color of birth, and watched the doctor's face intently while he was being scrutinized._

"_You, my friend, are holding Anthony Pascal Holmes," Sherlock announced from his seat in the corner. He was perusing the newspaper, while at the same time watching his comrade inspect the baby._

_John raised an eyebrow. "Pascal?"_

_Holmes shrugged. "My grandmother's maiden name. I rather liked it for a first name, but Madeline utterly refused. Went on about the Holmes clan and our 'strange affinity for nonsense names'. Makes one wonder how she would've felt about Sherringford."_

"_I'm sure your brother could tell you all about that one," Watson rejoined, setting little Anthony back in his cradle. "And what about the girl?"_

_Sherlock's smirk slid right off his face, and he went very still. His gaze were riveted to a spot above the now-barren mantel, as he could see a ghostly image there._

"_Isabel. Isabel Alice."_

_The good doctor blinked in surprise. "Your mother's name?"_

"_The first one, at least. Madeline…actually suggested it. My father concurred. Strange that he should do so, considering he has not cared one whit about anything to do with Mum since the divorce," Holmes murmured with aplomb. He seemed completely nonchalant about the naming of his daughter, but John could see how deeply it affected his compatriot. "Perhaps it's nostalgia."_

"_Perhaps it is…for all of you," Watson suggested, surveying the baby closely. She, in turn, had Sherlock's brooding look, even at a day old. Snickering, the doctor shook his head. "You can certainly tell these are your children, Holmes. They're both watching me, as if they can understand what is going on and gathering data."_

_The detective smiled at that. "I'd have to call their paternity into question if they did not do so."_

_Madeline groaned from the bed, "Trust me, they are yours, Sherlock. Only your babies can arrive in the midst of a painful, hellish nightmare and behave as though nothing were awry."_

_John laughed outright at that, trying to still the now-fussing baby in his arms. Isabel would not be quiet, no matter what the poor doctor tried. Soon enough, he went to hand her to Madeline, but was intercepted by Holmes._

"_Allow me."_

"_Holmes, she probably needs a feeding."_

"_No, no, she does not," Sherlock countered, reaching out for his girl. "I have been with these children for twenty-seven hours and have gotten to know their cries. All she wants is to be held, and not a by a stranger. And by all accounts, despite your deft catching of her on the way out, you are still a stranger."_

_Madeline tried to sit up, but was quickly admonished for her efforts. She had been advised to rest for the day, the sleuth reminded her, and would enforce that advice if need be. Shaking his head, John handed off little Isabel to Holmes. The child nestled quickly into her father's embrace, mouth forming a tiny "o" as she began to finally settle down. Both friend and wife looked on in fascination as Sherlock rocked Isabel gently, muttering something under his breath in a soothing manner._

_**Don't get me wrong if I'm looking kind of dazzled…**_

"_Anyone who has ever called Sherlock Holmes an unfeeling automaton should see this, and then stick their opinions elsewhere," Madeline crooned, growing teary-eyed at the adorable sight before her. Her husband pulled a grimace._

"_Oh dear me, I've become a sentimentalist, haven't I?"_

_John snorted. "No turning back now, old boy."_

_**Don't get me wrong if I'm acting so distracted, I'm thinking about the fireworks that go off when you smile…**_

Watson concluded then, and affirmed it now, on his way to the baptism of the twins, that even if Holmes completed turned his life around and dove head-first into the arena of emotion, he still would be seen as heartless and calculating. But frankly, he also thought that the world's vision of Sherlock Holmes was entirely unrealistic at this point. Especially with him being married, with two children. However, he was still Holmes in that he was obdurate and unwilling to sacrifice his morals for mere emotion.

Which is why, instead of going into the church with his wife, he was riding along with Watson and his ilk in a Landau. Victoria was settling Willy into his seat and all her attention was clasped on the child for once.

"Organized religion is a sham and I wish to have no part in it. I go merely for the sake of my family."

"How selfless of you," John remarked, cutting a glance across the seat at his companion. "You don't care for it because it's _organized_. Were it scattered three sheets to the wind, you'd be completely happy with the idea."

Holmes glared at him, but otherwise kept his face blank. "Of course, I believe there is something greater out there. Whether or not I choose to call Him 'God' is another matter entirely. With so much information, like the Koran and the Buddhist teaching, not to mention the Torah-"

"Which makes up the Old Testament anyway," Watson pointed out, hoping to pause the sleuth in his tirade. It did not work, though.

"Indeed, and the rest of the Bible, one should take in consideration all religious texts and come to a conclusion for oneself at the proper age. Baptism at a few days old is no guarantee of anything, and I wish that there was no pressure to conform. Not for my boy and girl, at least."

"I suppose you do recollect your marriage in an Anglican church, or is it not relevant to the conversation at this point in the juncture?" the doctor cut him off entirely. An eyebrow rising was the only reply. "Look, you agreed to this for some reason or another, and not merely out of familial obligation. You want to provide your children with a base of belief, and that's admirable in a father. It's also admirable that you also want them to eventually learn there is more out there. But there is one thing you have not taken into account."

The detective clicked his tongue. "I think not."

"You did," John said, leaning in conspiringly. "You have to keep in mind your children are only eleven days old. At this age, belief is not a major issue for them. And leaving Madeline to manage those two on her own in front of all your friends and family is not noble."

Holmes and Watson stared one another down for a few moments, before the detective flicked his eyes out the window of the carriage.

"Perhaps there is…some merit in what you say," Sherlock admitted, choosing to ignore John's triumphant grin.

"As long as you see that there may be something to it."

So, with that said, the cab halted in front of the church at the end of the conversation, the occupants descending swiftly. The waiting Mrs. Holmes was standing at the door, fixing her husband with a level gaze before handing him Anthony and leading the way to the font. Alastair and Mycroft, who was one of the chosen godfathers, were already at the front, with Julianne Tyler as the chosen godmother. Watson stood beside the elder Holmes men, blood brother with bond brother, everyone crossing themselves accordingly to the priest's blessings.

_**Don't get me wrong if I split like light refracted, I'm only off to wander across a moonlit mile…**_

"I baptize you, Isabel Alice, and you, Anthony Pascal…"

Indeed, anyone looking at Sherlock Holmes at this moment could not think him an empty vessel. It appeared as though, John mused, his cup was running over with goodness.

**xXxXxXx**

October 3rd, 1894

_Dear John,_

_We have not heard from you in quite awhile. Tell your friends Sherlock and Madeline congratulations on the birth of their twins. My, she's a brave woman. I thought having only Charlotte was a trial. I extend my best wishes._

_Your niece Charlotte is doing well, and of course my husband Sir Robert continues his work with Parliament. Being even of the minor gentry has its perks, I must say. It helps certainly in the fact that we have secured a fine tutor from Oxford for Lotte._

_In any case, I'm writing to confirm a rumor I've heard about you, dear older brother. I have heard, through some acquaintances of some of your patients that you are engaged in an illicit affair with your son's nanny. Big Brother, I would like to tell you that I, for one, will not censure you. After all, being the children of a butcher, we have no noble bearing that makes such unions improper. However, since it is __your __servant, one has to wonder what you intend towards her._

_Knowing you, you are most likely bombarded constantly with the question. Again, I judge you not, because I myself was raised from nearly nothing to being Lady Leland. But have you offered her such security? From what I hear, she is still in your employ and that is all. I beg you, John, bear in mind the future. Or if you have, then perhaps you should make her privy to your plans as well._

_Love,_

_Your sister Katherine_

John rolled his eyes at his sister's questions. Kitty had always been the inquisitive one in the family, and the one without tact as well. How well that served her as a Lady was still in debate. However, she did provide valid points. The gossip was reaching a scandalous level; if Victoria ever showed her face at his office, even if just to bring Willy in, the women waiting to be treated made evil remarks behind her back. Once she merely walked in to deliver him a message from his lawyer, and the insults hurled at her caused them both to go red in the face with fury. For months, it had been just been the two of them in their protected grounds of Cavendish Place. He liked it that way; in the privacy of their home, he could kiss her and be with her without repercussion for his actions. But John knew he had to think about where they were headed.

_**Once in awhile, two people meet, seemingly for no reason…Suddenly thunder, shower everywhere…**_

At least, he had to wonder if she wanted to go in the same direction as he did. Something about the courtship reminded him of the times he had with Mary. He felt like he did when he was with her: giddy, under the heavy wraps of manliness. A fire was lit in his soul, one that he could no more deny its burning than he could the fire burning in his fireplace at that moment. Very rarely were people in his world given second chances at love, and he knew he was extremely lucky.

But if she didn't want him for life, he knew he would be broken inside permanently.

He stuffed the letter into a sheaf of papers just as the object of his affections came into his study, talking animatedly about her day with his son. William had been toddling about, then choosing to spring upon the animal for a ride and scared the bulldog under the tables in the parlor. She accompanied the reenactment with voices and wide hand gestures, entertaining her crowd of one. John didn't hear much of the story, but just saw her black eyes dance with merriment and her mouth contort joyously.

"Victoria…what are your thoughts on marriage?" Watson asked suddenly, shocking both the nanny and himself. Before he could ask for her pardon, she bit her lip and indicated that she needed a moment to process.

"I think…it's a fantastic way of showing how much two people love each other. Cleaving to one person for the rest of your life, devoting yourself to not just one person but to the future you can have with that person is beautiful," she formed the words carefully, smoothing down the skirt of her dress. Dropping her eyes, she continued, "But for me, I've never considered it a possibility. Nobody wants an actress."

_**Don't get me wrong if I fall in the "mode of passion"…it might be unbelievable…**_

Letting the silence fill the space briefly, John rose from his desk, taking measured steps towards this young woman. The only indicator of his deep nervousness was the slight shake in his hand as he gripped her hands tenderly. Waiting for her to look him in the eye, he half-grinned at the fact that she did not have to crane her neck to look at him like so many other women. He smiled, pleased that she was in no way like other women. She was something more; protective, brave, smooth, infuriating, cold and hot at the same time. She was the spring after his hard winter.

"And what if…you were to be asked, right now?" he queried, heart hammering in his chest. For the longest time, her wide eyes blinked uncontrollably, her mouth unable to form a single syllable. Sharp, cutting pain began to form in Watson's heart as she continued to be silent. As his face flushed red with incredible embarrassment, he almost didn't hear her answer.

"I'd say I'd certainly consider it," she whispered. "If it is you asking, then I would say there is a strong possibility I would go through with marriage."

_**It might just be fantastic, don't get me wrong…**_

They both let out a laugh, and John gathered her in his arms. He'd have to get a proper ring right away, and put her confession to the test.

* * *

**Author's note:** Yay, named babies! Yay religious discussion! Yay, possible engagement! I will be honest with you all; this is the second-to-last chapter of this story. I have indicated before that it would not be nearly as long as "Blood Bond", frankly because I find this story to be way more taxing and challenging than BB, and I'm not having fun writing it anymore. But I can't leave a story unfinished, and there is one more chapter to go before it is done. I will be doing my thank yous then, but I still hope you'll stick around for the last one even though it's almost over.

Should be posting the next chapter soon…until then, please read and REVIEW this! Thanks!


	15. Seasons of Love

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Seasons of Love" from the musical _RENT _(in bold).

* * *

October 8th, 1899 (Five Years Later)

"Anthony Pascal Holmes, for the last time, the dog is not a horse! Do NOT ride him!"

The little boy with his father's smirk and his grandmother's eyes obeyed immediately, flushing bright red at being caught again. The poor bulldog, Gladstone the Second, ambled off gratefully and nestled onto the last remaining rug on the floor. Anthony studied the animal intently, wondering if perhaps he could get away with riding him again. Soon enough, though, he was distracted by the "tag" he'd received from his sister and he took off after her. Madeline shook her head, half-grinning as she turned her attention to the box in front of her.

"I swear, I do not have enough eyes to keep watching these children and pack," she groused good-naturedly. As she sorted another stack of newspapers into the crate, another box landed heavily next to her.

"I'd say I'd watch the children instead of packing, but then you would have to start paying me again," Victoria murmured, kneeling down beside her good friend and smiling cheerfully. The racket of playing children echoed in the hallways of 221B, drawing closer to the flat on a few occasions.

"Heaven forbid that," Mrs. Holmes snickered. Her bright green eyes flicked over Victoria and then around the rooms. The majority of the chaos was actually under control and in storage now, and in truth it made her feel a little depressed. Six years in this place did not seem like much time, now that they were preparing to leave it all.

_**Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes, five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear.**_

In the wake of marriage and the raising of the twins, both Madeline and Sherlock realized that there was just not enough room in the flat for their family and the business. With Tony and Isabel getting older and clambering all over the furniture (not to mention getting into Mrs. Hudson's private room with their father's lockpick set), they decided to find an actual house. Holmes himself was occupied with an ongoing investigation, but that did not stop him from lining up home listings, crunching the numbers, and in the end viewing only two houses with Madeline before deciding on the new domicile. The place was lovely, only a few blocks over from Cavendish Place and Watson, with three stories and a cellar room for Holmes to perform his experiments in.

_**Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes…how do you measure, measure a year?**_

Though he'd performed his duties beautifully, he would not speak upon the matter unless he had to. Madeline suspected that he was a tad sentimental over the flat, but being Sherlock he would never own up to it or even allow himself to think he was. However, his wife allowed herself to muse on it as the moving day drew closer and closer.

_Six years, living under the same roof as Sherlock Holmes…teaching Izzy to walk…Holmes instructing Anthony on the finer points of observation and fact-gathering…nights spent reading children's stories…nights spent going over case files and offering opinions that often made Sherlock laugh, considering how off the mark they were…eating meals with Mrs. Hudson…sitting and holding a sleeping child…_

_**In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee…in inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.**_

Suddenly three bodies slammed through the doorway of Watson's old rooms, wrestling for control over the rings for a game of quoits. The noise drew Madeline out of her reverie, and caused a giggle to fly out of Victoria's mouth.

"At least they aren't playing knur and spell indoors," she said under her breath. "Again."

Madeline chuckled. "After breaking three vases and Alastair's old baseboard, I think they've learned."

The biggest of the three, William Watson, was crawling away from the twins, keeping the rings stretched out before him as he went along. In just two months the boy would be turning eight years old, and he had grown so much in the past five years. When looking back on old daguerreotypes, Victoria could see that Willy was the spitting image of John, save for the wide gray eyes that belonged to Mary. And the interminable freckles. Tony was clinging to his left leg, acting as a dead weight in the hopes of tiring his older and bigger opponent out. Thinking logically, he quickly motioned for Isabel to give up her hold on the right leg and climb up Willy's back. As she complied, he swiped his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes and held on tighter.

Izzy was a tough girl, determined to match her brother and their "cousin" in every endeavor they encountered. She kept up with them whenever they went out to play ball, or even wrestle, despite their efforts to the contrary. At just five years old, she was completely set on proving all the norms of her gender wrong, and pushing the rules until they bent to her will. Coupled with a detective's dark gaze and fantastic capacity for understanding, there was no denying her paternity.

"Children!" Victoria finally intervened, cutting their struggle short with a sharp tone. "Enough of this. Give me the rings, now."

Sullenly, the twins released Willy, their gazes dropped to the ground in mock shame. William stumbled over a stack of books, but managed to make his way across the room and handed her the toys.

"Sorry," he muttered, turning to go. A gentle grip on his arm stilled him.

"You understand that I do not want you three to get hurt while running around these boxes and such, correct?" Victoria questioned him, kneeling down to look him in the eye. "I just want you all to be safe as we finish up here. The porters will be by soon and then the rooms will be empty, but until then you have to be careful and watch out for Tony and Izzy. Will you do that for me?"

Hesitantly, William looked up, conflicting looks of shame at being scolded and pride at being trusted with the protection of the younger ones battling on his face. Eventually, the pride won out.

"Yes, Mum. You can trust me," he replied brightly, flashing her a quick grin before striding over to the waiting five-year-olds with his chest puffed out. He liked being told he was older and more mature; it made him feel important. Under this woman's care and devotion, the boy had flourished, treating her like she was his true mother. For her part, Victoria felt her lips twist into a sad smirk, her thumb rubbing her wedding ring absentmindedly.

_**How about love? Measure in love…seasons of love…seasons of love…**_

After that night of discussing marriage, John had gone out and bought her a gorgeous ring. Stunned, she agreed to marry him, but only after a long engagement. She needed time to really, really think about becoming not only a wife, but a stepmother. She also had to decide if she wanted to give up her independence and pin all her aspirations on a single man. Two months into the engagement, she realized that she was not just ready, but incredibly willing. She loved William as if he were her own son. And John…John was the only man she ever respected other than her father. He was the only man she'd ever let through her indifferent exterior and into her heart. She truly loved, truly, no matter how bad the rows were, no matter how badly his day with patients had been or her time visiting relatives had gone. She learned that his love would keep her afloat…alive. The engagement went on for seven months, and on May 21st, 1895 they were wed. Four years of ups and downs, trailing after William, learning to run a household as a wife and not a servant, of being in love with life...and that was not all they had shared in four years.

"At least the babies can still keep quiet," Madeline told her, pushing an old pair of billy clubs into the opened trunk to her left. Both women paused and looked over to the far left, to the window seat, and beamed broadly. Two little ones were napping soundly in the sunlight, unaware of the commotion around them. One was the third Holmes child, Marianne Ruth. The other was tiny Nathaniel Hamish Watson, his thumb tucked into his mouth as he slept.

"Babies" wasn't quite the right word for them; in point of fact, they were toddlers. Madeline and Victoria had gotten pregnant around the same time in 1896, sending both Watson and Holmes into what they liked to call "second pregnancy hell". Sherlock was positively unsettled by it all; how could he not be, when the first pregnancy ended with twins? And poor John was beside himself as well. The last time he'd procreated, his wife only lived a year with their son before she succumbed to illness. Both women came out safely, Nathaniel coming first in February of 1897 and Marianne following close behind in March. John had marveled at his second son, was incredibly overjoyed at the fact that Victoria had come out of the excursion with no sign of sickness. William was glad to have a new playmate, although he was as gentle as a six-year-old could be with a baby.

_**Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes! Five hundred twenty-five thousand journeys to plan...five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes…How do you measure the life of a woman or a man?**_

A loud crash bounced off the walls and up the stairwell, and both women looked at each other in panic. Did the children fall down the stairs? Just before they could get up and investigate for themselves, they heard laboring grunts and heavy treads coming up for them. Madeline slipped Victoria a billy club and waited for whatever heavy-footed, would-be attacker that was climbing the steps. They dropped their weapons in an instant and began to shriek in hysterical laughter once the figure made it to the top step.

Sherlock Holmes, detective extraordinaire, was at the moment a tree for climbing. At least, he was for the two boys scaling over his back and legs. Needless to say, he did not look the least bit amused. Watson brought up the rear, roaring with laughter as well.

"Stormed him as we came through the door," the doctor explained, prying his son off his "uncle's" back and setting him on his feet. "I suppose they've missed you around the house lately."

"The work needs to be done, Watson, and the last place I want it to be done is in the same rooms where my children sleep," the sleuth admonished him, pulling his own boy up into a tight hug. He'd been away from the flat for the past few nights, cornering thieves down in the Whitechapel district and uncovering a ring of mass-murdering cultists in the process. He was, visibly, exhausted but otherwise he carried himself in the same state one would find him in: contemplatively observant. He surveyed his rooms, barren now except for two crates, four boxes, and a trunk filled with old weaponry, let alone the heavy mahogany wardrobe. Carefully, he went to the window seat and dropped a kiss on his sleeping daughter, his wife coming up on his right and putting her arms around him. Closing his eyes briefly, he lay his head on top of hers for a moment. It was good to be back in his familiar surroundings, with people he actually cared for. "Where is Isabel?"

Madeline glanced behind him and snorted. "Climbing the wardrobe, trying to get your attention."

Pivoting on his heel, he chuckled under his breath. He witnessed, with amusement, his little girl indeed scaling the immovable furniture with ease. Once she caught her father look at her, she waved demurely with one hand and held on tight with the other.

"_Ah, ma belle fille! Comment êtes-vous cet après-midi?_" he asked her, setting Tony down and crossing over to her. Jumping into his outstretched arms, his little girl buried her face in his chest for a second before answering.

"_Je suis très bien, Papa!_" she answered him, grin widening. Tony, not wanting to be left out, tugged on Sherlock's trouser leg.

"_Elle pleurait tout le temps que vous avez été absent_." He stuck his tongue out cheekily at his twin, daring her to say otherwise.

"I did not!" she cried, swinging in Holmes' arms and trying to swat her brother.

"Enough, you two, that's quite enough," Sherlock reprimanded them both as he put Isabel back on the ground. "I trust you both behaved for your mother while I was off?"

Like a pair of angels, they both smiled sweetly and nodded in time. Glimpsing their mother's raised eyebrow and grin of bemusement, he clicked his tongue.

"I certainly hope that's true. Otherwise…" He let the sentence end there, allowing his children to fill in the gaps as they so chose. Soon enough they would get to be the age to understand that empty threats would be just that, so he made do with what he had. Madeline frowned in disapproval, but let the matter go…for now.

"When do the porters come?" Victoria cut in, pushing the lid shut on one of the boxes.

"They're waiting outside until you're finished in here," John answered her, straightening his son's suspenders. In a whisper he asked, "And you behaved as well, correct?"

He'd gone with Sherlock on the escapade, but had nearly been taken back to the hospital instead. The wound in his leg was beginning to twist more as he got older, and had almost gotten him caught by the cultists. There was no denying it; John Watson was becoming too weary for the detective business. Filled with great relief at Willy's enthusiastic nod "yes", he turned his attention to his own wife and pecked her on the cheek. They were ignored, blending into the background as Madeline went with Sherlock to fetch up the men and the possessions were taken out.

"Missed you."

"And you as well," she told him, holding tightly onto him so his leg wouldn't give way to the stress. "Hard to believe we won't ever come back here."

"They'll only be down the road, and if anything Mrs. Hudson has to be relieved that she'll never see Holmes again. More than once I thought she'd commit homicide on the man," he tried to throw it off, shifting unsteadily.

"Still," she pressed on, "you've been coming and going out of these rooms for nearly twenty years. Many of your major life events happened right in this very space…I have to imagine it would be hard for you to let it all go."

A clearing throat caught their attention. Holmes had returned, alone, to the now-empty room. All that remained as an indication of his existence there was the "VR" riddled into the paneling and the opened wall safe. He nodded to them, striding over to the window seat and gently picking little Marianne up. The toddler was undisturbed and went on napping, adjusting to Sherlock's arms as she did so.

"I imagine it's hard for both of you," Victoria finished, following the detective's example and gathering up Nathaniel. John pressed a kiss on her lips and on his son's head before she went out. "I'll give you two a moment."

Neither man registered her swift clomping down the stairs, or the chubby bulldog trailing behind her. Rather, they looked around their long-time home, reliving each memory.

_**In truths that she learned, or in times that he cried. In bridges he burned, or the way that she died.**_

_Irene. Lestrade and Clarke calling at all hours. Stolen diamonds. Kidnappings. Spectral dogs. The Napoleon of Crime. Building a friendship. Becoming brothers. Guns firing in the darkness. Mary, and the first engagement. Returning from bloody boxing bouts. Holmes ingesting every deadly compound known to man. The first marriage. Madeline's accident. Supposed death, real death, and the second marriage. Victoria's arrival. Children, giving life, taking life. Alastair's final moments in August by the fireplace. The third marriage. Mycroft's laughter. New Christmases, birthdays, special occasions that were special to no one but themselves._

_**It's time now to sing out, though the story never ends…**_

"It's the end of an era," Holmes pronounced carefully, staring out the glass to Baker Street below. On the sidewalk waited Madeline, the twins, Victoria, and William. Mrs. Hudson was perched on the step, the rusted keys to the rooms in her quivering hands. Each face held the promise of the future, and reflected pieces of the past. Glancing down at his youngest in his arms, he found his words to be absolutely true at that moment.

_**Share love, give love spread love, measure…measure your life in love. Seasons of love…**_

John concurred. "It is…and it's the beginning of a new one."

"Indeed."

With that said the magnificent pair of Watson and Holmes straightened their backs, turned on their heels, and exited the rooms of 221B Baker Street for the final time. It was time to go home, to their true homes.

* * *

**French Translation:** 1. Ah, my beautiful girl! How are you this afternoon?  
2. I'm very well, Papa!  
3. She cried the whole time you were gone.  
I used an online translator for that tidbit…I don't really speak or write French so…yeah.

**Author's note:** So, when I said soon…I meant REALLY SOON. Yes, it's official: "His Home" has come to a close. I want to thank everyone who has stuck with this story, whether you were verbal with your support or silent. You guys truly helped me keep going even when I was ready to give up on this altogether. You all deserve my thanks and cookies. If I had cookies, you would soooo be getting them right now.

Special thanks to **xXxSandwich-chanxXx** for being an excellent proofreader. Seriously, you've saved my butt so many times from my terrible errors you should get a medal for it.

I may or may not do little one-shots here and there featuring the kids. It's a fun idea, but I'll see if I have the time to do so in between the other projects I'm working on.

Oh, and I made family trees for the Holmes and Watson families. You'll have to copy and paste into your search bar and junk.  
The Holmes family tree can be found here (remove the "dots" and put actual ones in): http:/harlemask(dot)deviantart(dot)com/art/Holmes-Family-Tree-193568134  
The Watson family tree can be found here: http:/harlemask(dot)deviantart(dot)com/art/Watson-Family-Tree-193568655

I hope you've all enjoyed this story, and I hope you'll enjoy coming back and re-reading it all again in the future…one can only dream, right? ;) Thanks again, everyone, review if you so wish, and I'll catch you all on the flipside!


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